Liberation
by FractiousDay
Summary: A magical accident sends three people through a portal to Middle Earth. Much is familiar to them, but much is different. As they travel through this new world, they decide to change it. Reflects a lot of things I thought were wrong with the LotR universe. Cannon to start with, then steadily more AU. First story.
1. Prologue

_First Story, so reviews/constructive criticism are very welcome, I'm not really sure what else to write here so...Here's my story..._

**Liberation**

Chapter 1

Vark arrived at the Mor'Shan Base Camp as dusk was falling, trundling along in the back of a supply wagon. Though somewhat undignified for an orc, it was better than walking, that was what Kodos were for. He looked out over the grassy flatland of the Barrens and remembered Swart's lectures on the 'Majesty of Nature' during his training in Razor Hill, he could particularly appreciate it now. The sun was just setting behind the Stonetalon Peaks, leaving most of the Barrens in shadow but making the clouds above glow in a glorious golden colour.

However his artistic musings were abruptly cut short as the cart hit a rock and the Blood Elf dozing quietly next to him flopped off onto the ground. Vark sighed, yelled at the driver that they'd catch up, and leapt off himself. Landing neatly he walked over to the dazed elf.

"Rude awakening?" Vark asked sardonically, offering his hand.

"Whaa?" slurred the elf rubbing his head with one hand and propping himself up with another

"You fell out" said Vark, always one to state the obvious

"You don't say" replied the unfortunate elf, allowing himself to be hauled up by Vark, his whole lower arm disappearing under the orc's huge green hand.

"What's your name? I'm Vark, Son of Rul'Thal" growled Vark, using the traditional Orc way of showing friendship.

"T-Taelan" stammered the aforementioned, really quite intimidated by the seven-foot-high mass of blackened steel and green muscle before him.

Vark was confused, the elf seemed...afraid...of him, although, Vark supposed, the 'Taelan' was very small, perhaps he had never seen an orc before? Vark attempted a 'smile' as he had seen humans do, unfortunately on an Orc it just made him look hungry.

"Don't eat me!" Taelan positively squealed, tripping over his long robe in an effort to get away from the monster's fearsome canines, Vark stopped smiling, and then made a noise that sounded like a mixture of a dog's barking and a big cat's yowl, which Taelan then realised was  
_laughing_.

"Don't worry little elf, I'm not hungry" an amused Vark replied, "Haven't you ever seen an Orc smile?"

"...Oh" muttered Taelan nervously

"Come on, the sun's going down and I want to sleep in a bed tonight!" Vark said grabbing Taelan's arm and hauling him along up the path.

Taelan trotted along after his new friend, he was feeling quite content now that he wasn't in immediate danger, even better, Vark seemed to know which way to go, and that meant that they wouldn't get eaten by one of the horrible creatures that seemed to infest every inch of this dry, dusty place. All was good.

Vark followed the cart's tracks up the path, occasionally looking back to make sure Taelan hadn't been attacked by hyenas, the elf seemed fairly happy, maybe a bit tired, but then again, this was the first elf Vark had met, so what did he know?

"Are we there yet?" moaned Taelan, looking at the ground, he glanced up to see Vark starting to speak, then with an exclamation glimpsed the (oddly comforting) sharpened stakes that made up the fortifications of the Mor'Shan Base Camp.

"What?" asked Vark, then looking in the direction the elf was quickly moving in he saw the Camp, smiling, he too quickened his pace and caught up.

"Aka'Magosh friends!" a gruff voice called from a watchtower built on a small hill

"Throm-Ka" replied Vark, looking at Taelan who appeared to be confused by this exchange in Orcish, "It means 'Well met'" he muttered. Taelan gratefully nodded and repeated the greeting, hideously mangling the pronunciation, causing both Orc great amusement.

"You need to report to Captain Shatterskull" shouted the Orc from the watchtower, helpfully pointing the way, Vark nodded his thanks and went further into camp.

Apart from a few caves and huts, Mor'shan Base Camp did not have much in the way of civilisation, it had lots of weapons scattered about and several pieces of armour, but apart from this it was exactly as advertised, a 'Base' Camp. Vark gazed around for the illusive Captain, amused at Taelan's suggestion that they simply "Look for the biggest axe", which turned out to be true, with Captain Shatterskull standing to attention near a tree, supervising weapons practice among some recruits, and, he did indeed have a very large axe.

Taelan was almost falling asleep on his feet as Vark talked in Orcish with the other Orc with red, spiky armour, then, their conversation apparently finished with Red Spiky Orc asking what his name was with a grunt and a head gesture. "Taelan" he mumbled in answer, then Red Spiky Orc asked something else, a quill delicately poised on a scrap of parchment.

"He wants to know where you're from" Vark translated

"Oh...um, Quel'thalas I suppose" replied Taelan, the red Orc grunted in acknowledgement, and stumped off in the opposite direction, Taelan looked expectantly at Vark for instructions.

"You go in that building there" Vark said, indicating a domed structure near the base of a cliff, "Go inside, and find somewhere to sleep, find a place for me as well" Vark then wandered off toward a different Orc with a different axe, and Taelan went toward what he assumed was the barracks.

The Camp's Supply Officer, Kelm Hargrunth, was sitting on a rock, sharpening his weapon, as Vark approached, "Quartermaster" Vark said, with a nod at the bearded orc.

"That's me, what d'you want?" asked Hargrunth, eyeing the young orc before him.

"I'm to join the Outriders, I need a uniform" replied Vark happily, this would make his father very proud when he heard.

"Why didn't you say so?" said the Hargrunth, surging to his feet, he stepped up to a table piled with supplies, clothes and armour in front of him, looking more like a shopkeeper than a Veteran of the Third War. He apprised the Orc on the other side of the table, "You won't need much equipment, which is good, we always seem to be low on supplies, you have armour and a weapon already, but as you say, a uniform", Hargrunth dug through the pile of oddments until he found what he was looking for, "Ah, here you go, and I suppose rations and suchlike" he muttered after handing the tabard to Vark.

Vark remembered his father's stories about glory in the Horde's army, and felt honoured to receive such a token, he unfolded the cloth and looked at it, a silver mouth with fangs and a simple border were all that adorned it, Vark laid it across his arm and took the ration packs and bandages Hargrunth handed him.

"6 ration packs, resupply to the frontline is every week, so don't eat them all at once, you won't get more before that, also, you're expected to look after your own injuries if they aren't serious, so use those, if they _are_ serious, see a healer immediately. You'll be dispatched in the morning, now get some sleep" explained Hargrunth, then turning away, went back to sharpening his axe.

Vark, with arms full of food, bandages and clothes, stumbled into the dark interior of the building and dumped his stuff in a corner, then, folding the tabard reverently turned round to find Taelan looking at him.

"What's that?" asked Taelan, indicating the symbol on the cloth.

"It shows I'm part of the Horde" Vark said proudly as Taelan took the tabard off him to have a look.

"Why don't I get one?" said Taelan, very impressed with the big skull on the front.

"Because you're _not_part of the Horde, obviously"

"But I thought Thrall agreed to let the Sin'dorei in?" asked a confused Taelan, using the Thalassian name for 'Blood Elf'.

Vark finally saw the reason for his confusion, "Yes, the elves are in the Horde, but you, as an individual are not, you are a _civilian_" Vark said, using an odd word his uncle had taught him that meant 'someone who lives in a country but doesn't fight for it', Vark thought he'd have to clarify "Well, before the Horde was an army, or a fighting force, not a nation, we were the Orc nation, and no-one needed to know anymore, but when the Warchief started allowing other races to join, we became a nation of many people, I was using the word 'Horde' in its Orcish sense, but as you're not an Orc, and don't speak Orcish, your confusion is understandable."

"Um...okay...thanks" Taelan said, even more confused, but accepting of the situation.

"You should know about the basic politics, how old are you anyway?" asked Vark, looking at the extra-small elf.

"Twelve maybe? I'm not really sure, I don't remember much of my early years, then Arthas came, I was about eight then I think, my mother was a ranger, so she's probably dead, and my father was killed when the humans turned against us, and I sort of found myself in Orgrimmar, among all the other refugees" said Taelan sadly.

"Oh" said Vark quietly, he had thought that the elf was young, but not _that _young, "How did you end up here then?"

"Couldn't stay in Orgrimmar, didn't know anyone, and I didn't speak any of the languages, I apprenticed to one of the Blood Elf Magisters who joined the Shadow Cleft, you know, the big cave thing in the middle of the city?" Taelan asked glancing up, Vark nodded and he continued. "Well he was usually too busy talking to demons making potions and things and just sent me out for regents and ingredients and suchlike, so I ran away, saw this cart leaving the city, jumped on it, must have been before you got on because I didn't see you."

After a slight pause in which Vark considered the story he spoke, "Well do you know where this is?" he said, vaguely indicating the Camp and building.

"Um...not as such..." said Taelan with a sheepish grin.

"You are in the Warsong Outriders Base, otherwise know as Mor'shan Base Camp, the big cave in the cliff leads to Warsong Gulch, where the Outriders fight the Silverwing Sentinels, who are a group of Night Elves, who don't like us taking wood from the forest." Vark carefully explained.

"I see...and the tabard?" Taelan said, pointing.

"Means that I'm an Outrider" Vark said proudly. "...Of the lowest rank, but I'll get promoted soon."

"So you'll be out fighting tomorrow?" asked Taelan, not wanting to be left alone in this strange place.

"I doubt it!" scoffed Vark, "The Captain said I was to report in the morning, I'll probably be on fetch and carry. I assume you want to know what you'll be doing?"

Taelan had just been thinking that, he knew he wasn't part of the army, so was unsure of his position in the hierarchy of the Camp. So he nodded at the Orc's question.

"Well you can come to the Captain with me tomorrow, he left the 'occupation' column blank when he wrote your name" said Vark.

"Thanks." said the elf smiling, then remembering something else he wanted to ask, "What do I do about food?"

Vark looked at him closely, "When did you last eat?"

"Yesterday afternoon" replied Taelan.

"Oh well you can have one of my ration packs, don't think too much about them, just eat" Vark said, digging one out of the pile of supplies, then throwing it to Taelan.

"I assume you're a mage then? From the robe and the bit about the magister" Vark commented as Taelan wolfed down his food.

"Well...I am yes, but I've also learn some things about curses, and the fel and things like that, I wasn't supposed to but I used to look in all the big books he left around. What about you? You're wearing armour so I thought you were a warrior, but you're not jumping up and down, shouting about 'demonic possession' like most Orcs." asked Taelan thoughtfully.

"I am a shaman, I felt a slight taint about you when I met you, but I wanted to make sure. And there are, as you say, still warlocks in the Horde, and I respect power, regardless of the source, if you can use it to help the Horde, I don't care." Said Vark grinning, "So, with all those things, you're not much of a surprise really, didn't you wonder why i could understand you and not any other Orcs?"

Taelan looked confused, "I just thought you spoke Thalassian?"

"No, its about being a shaman, the element of Water forms the basis of language, so I can understand anyone, which, as you've seen, is useful" Vark explained.

Taelan nodded, as he had his mouth full, he swallowed, and continued "What now then? Also, how old are you? You're taller than most Orcs but you don't look as old as them."

"I'm sixteen by the Elves reckoning, but yes, I'm oddly tall, the only reason I've ever been given for it was that one of my grandmothers may have been an ogre, but that also might just be boasting on the part of my grandfather, so I have no idea" Vark said smiling "And to answer your first question, now we sleep. Good Night Taelan", and with that, Vark turned over and re-arranged his pile of oddments he used as a pillow.

Taelan, chuckling to himself, also lay down, "Night" he murmured, and then quickly fell asleep.


	2. Promotion

_Forgot to write this last chapter:_

_**Disclaimer: World of Warcraft is a product of Blizzard, Lord of the Rings is a product of J.R.R. Tolkein.**_

Chapter 2

Taelan awoke with a thumping headache, he felt completely drained, and, to top matters off, he had no idea what he had done to get it. He had just had a very vivid dream of his first meeting with his best friend Vark, but in the dream Vark was a Grunt, but that was about two years ago. For this reason he was very confused. Vark was a sergeant now, maybe he was remembering it, that was a possibility. Now to find out where he was. The logical part of his mind told him that he should stay lying down as he didn't know how bad his injuries were, however his more adventurous side told him that he was of no use to anyone sitting (lying) here like this, and should get up. He decided he would!

"Oh no you don't." Said a very familiar, gravelly voice.

"That you Vark?" Taelan asked, easing himself back onto the bed.

"It certainly is! Who else would sit through all your mumblings while you were asleep?" Replied Vark cheerfully.

"How long was I out?" asked Taelan.

"Two nights and a day, that elf got you good." Replied Vark, Taelan could hear the smile in his face.

"What elf?" Then realisation dawned on him, "Oooohhhh, _that_ elf."

"Yes, _that_ elf, well actually...this elf." Said Vark, Taelan opened his eyes and saw a dark shape before him, slowly the grinning figure of Vark swam into focus, Vark had become even bigger in the year Taelan had known him, and was now at least 9 feet high, which was, everyone admitted, big, even for an Orc, Vark was bare chested, large strips of bandages encircling his torso and right shoulder and biceps, and with a large scratch across his ribs on his left side, then Taelan saw what he was holding.

In Vark's uninjured hand was a decapitated head, dangling by a scrap of scalp and a long lock of hair, he held it by the hair as there was a huge gash in the face that exposed the skull, blood dripping down it onto the chin and then onto the floor. The neck was crudely hewn, and looked more like it was torn than cut, with miscellaneous threads of flesh hanging down from the base of the skull.

"And what, precisely are you going to do with that?" asked Taelan, far from being horrified of anything else, he was quite amused at Vark's enthusiasm, he was also thinking of another, darker, use for the head.

"Hey!" Exclaimed Vark, get your own! This one's mine! Anyway, I know what you're thinking and I already took care of it." Explained Vark darkly, reaching into a box filled with straw and throwing a small object toward Taelan that landed on his bedding.

Taelan picked it up, it was a glass vial filled with a red liquid, a liquid that Taelan well knew to be blood. "Thank you my friend." He said sincerely, "This will be _most_ useful."

At that Vark's smile only got more pronounced, he was proud of the young elf for using such a strong magic, one that so many others were afraid of.

"So" said Taelan slowly, slipping the blood vial into his sleeve, "What happened, all I remember is a blue glow."

"Well we got in alright as you know, you fried that stupid overgrown bird but that called the elf up." Remarked Vark, hefting the head again, "Her cat jumped me, knocked me over, started clawing me." He then shrugged his bandaged side forward, "You threw up a shield to stop her stupid arrows, then (we think) she shot you with a draining spell, which is why you can't feel anything, you collapsed of mangical exhaustion or something, by this time I had wrestled the cat off me, pushed it over that ledge we were on, she looked quite shocked, and I managed to hit her in the face" explained Vark, "Then I got you're 'ingredients'" holding up a vial, "got our proof," holding up the head "and grabbed you, then ran back with you over my shoulder. And that's what happened." He said, leaning back and wincing slightly as weight came on to his shoulder.

"Thank you again my friend." Replied Taelan gratefully when he had digested this story.

"Anyway you need to get up, there's someone waiting for you..." said Vark enigmatically, getting up and walking away, "Put some clothes on before you come out, here you go." He said, placing a red robe on a chair.

Taelan grinned and started sitting up, he thought the camp outside unusually quiet, and hurried to get out and investigate.

Vark was outside, standing proudly to attention outside his comrade's tent, the three guests that had arrived this morning were waiting, a huge broad Orc with a great two-handed battle axe, he wore the bones of a demon lord on his shoulders and a choker of bone around his neck, this was Garrosh Hellscream, Overlord of the Warsong, and personally, one of Vark's heroes, as Vark attempted to put his chest out even further and stand up straighter, Taelan ducked out of the tent wearing his new robe, his gave Hellscream only a cursorily glance and turned his attention to the Blood Elf Magister standing next to Hellscream, the elf had a deep red robe with hints of golden thread and a staff with an end like a flame, Taelan recognised him, but attempted to show indifference, the final newcomer was another Orc, wearing brown armour, with large spikes on the shoulders and wearing an axe and shield, Taelan did not recognise this Orc, but Vark did, it was his father.

Taelan saw his friend swell with pride, he assumed the Orc in the brown armour was a member of the Kor'Kron Guard, the elite of the Horde armed forces, this meant that the larger brown-skinned orc with the bones was Garrosh Hellscream, leader of the Warsong Offensive, and therefore leader of the Outriders as well, perhaps this was simply a routine visit?

The middle figure was ominous though, he stank of blood magic, and held a large staff, and this showed him to be a magister, one of the mages in charge of the Blood Elves, this could be dangerous, Taelan didn't know if this mage was there because of him, he did not recognise the elf, but this was no excuse.

Vark looked at Captain Shatterskull for instructions, he got none, the Captain resolutely staring ahead. He decided he'd have to 'take the initiative'. He nudged Taelan, and then ripped of a salute, making a fist with his right hand, and thumping his chest. This caught the group's attention, he could see his father's eyes through the slit of the Kor'Kron's helmet, they looked as if they reserved judgement for the moment.

Taelan felt Vark's elbow in his side and stood up straighter too, then, seeing Vark salute, did so aswell, in the Orc fashion, given that Hellscream was the superior and not the mage. He was amused to see Vark wince slightly, "_Serves him right"_ he thought, Taelan was not about to thump any part of his body where he had been mauled the day before. He observed that Orcs could be surprisingly forgetful sometimes. He thought the smaller Orc, the one in the brown armour looked interested in the display.

When Hellscream and the others made no move, apparently just observing, Captain Shatterskull stepped forward a pace, "Report!" he bellowed, looking at Vark.

Vark was slightly confused, he had given a report yesterday whilst he was recuperating, perhaps the Captain wanted one for Hellscream and the other visitors, such was the military, 'dig a hole, fill it in' as the saying went.

"Auxiliary Taelan and I snuck into the Sentinel's Base to sabotage the enemy war effort, as orders we also looked for targets of opportunity, such as supplies and leaders, Auxiliary Taelan set fire to a tent whilst hiding in some bushes, and I looked for enemy supplies, I had destroyed several packs when I heard a loud screech." Explained Vark.

"A _screech_?" asked the Captain confusedly.

"Yes sir, but I think Auxiliary Taelan could explain better." Said Vark indicating his friend.

"Well sir," started Taelan, nervous under his superior's gaze. "It was a big black bird sir, flew down from above me, the noise was some kind of alarm, that brought another elf over, so I ran to the rendezvous point that Sergeant Vark had set us before the mission, it was the top part of the base, the plan was that if we encountered too much resistance we would slow fall down and then run back here, but it didn't work." Finished Taelan looking sheepish.

"I saw the elf chasing Taelan, it was one of the Sentinels, had one of those strange 'glaives' sir, with the three blades, but as we've found sir, they're not strong if you strike them full on, so it broke when I was fighting the elf. After I killed her, I ran up to where Taelan was standing. We were getting ready but someone started shooting us." Vark said, getting into the swing of the story.

"I fried the bird to stop it from following us, and saw Vark kill the first elf, then saw the second, threw a few spells at her but she kept dodging, she had a nightsaber, big one with armour on it and one of those crystal faceplates, so we thought it would be good to kill her, as she seemed important." Said Taelan, growing more confident.

"We also decided retaining the high ground was a good idea, so I blocked the ramp whilst Auxiliary Taelan was blocking her arrows, and she was moving toward us, her cat jumped at me, and I went down, I think she got Taelan with a draining shot, because he collapsed after it, by this time I threw the 'Saber off the ramp onto a fence, this seemed to suprise the elf because she paused, this gave me time to attack and I managed to kill her." Finished Vark happily.

Captain Shaterskull looked impressed, "And your injuries?" He asked, indicating Vark's bandaged torso.

"The 'Saber sir, should be fine in a few days." Replied Vark stoically.

The Captain nodded, "Excellent, also, this elf, the officer, who was she?" he asked slowly.

Taelan answered this time, "We thought you might be able to help us out with that sir." He said gradually.

Shatterskull looked slightly confused, "How?" he asked somewhat obviously.

Vark glanced at Taelan and nodded his head toward the tent behind them, Taelan rushed in, and spent a few seconds in which he was presumably trying to find the sentinel's head among all the clutter of Vark and Taelan's tent. He exited after, ducking under the low arch of the 'doorway' flap and held out the head.

The various guests, the Captain and a few random Grunts who had gathered round for the story all leant forward for a closer look at the morbid specimen.

"So this particular elf was in the camp, with a large black nightsaber, and a pet hawk, and you two killed her?" asked the Captain, looking toward Hellscream then back to the duo.

"Well...yes." said Vark hesitantly, looking down at Taelan who was standing on one foot and looking awkward.

There was a slight pause, all were silent, then Hellscream let out a great bark of laughter, "An excellent tale!" he bellowed, with many of the other looking on in approval and breaking into growls of agreement. He then turned to the magister next to him. "Can you confirm it?" He asked the elf.

The Blood Elf standing next to Hellscream looked slightly ill, his eyes fixed on the blood that had dripped down and formed a small pool in the time the conversation had been going. "Well I might know who that was, I can check, but how many times did you hit 'it'?

"Just the once." Vark replied, looking uneasy as he magister drew a complicated sigil of green light in the air.

After a few mumbles and whispers under his breath and more manipulation the green light, the magister looked up.

"It is indeed the head of Su'ura Swiftarrow, I am surprised." He said, looking at the two in front of him.

"Why are you surprised and who is Su'ura Swiftarrow?" asked Vark perplexed. Taelan nodded at the question, also confused.

The three guests looked most amused at these questions, Hellscream spoke this time, "Su'ura Swiftarrow..." he said, having trouble with the pronounciation because of his fangs, "Su'ura Swiftarrow was the leader of the Sentinels, and one of the senior military commanders of the Alliance in Kalimdor, so you just killed, with a single strike no less, the most 'opportune targets' for about two hundred miles." He said, sounding grudgingly respectful. "And her assassination wasn't even your mission!"

Vark and Taelan were stunned, Taelan had thought the elf was important, but not that important.

"Well done." said Vark's father slowly, nodding his head.

But Hellscream wasn't finished yet, "Therefore, I, Garosh Hellscream, Warlord of the Warsong Clan and General of the Horde, give you, Vark, Son of Rul'Thar, the rank of Captain, and all its associated responsibilities and privileges. I also grant you both a Mark of Honour, for you deeds." Then he looked at Taelan, "You elf, are not under my jurisdiction, which is why Magister Jaedris is here."

The Magister stepped forward, "By the power invested in me by the Regent Lords of Quel'Thalas, I grant you this token, you should know what it means." He said rather darkly, reaching into a pocket and bringing out a red-gold ring, with a single ruby set in it, he handed it to Taelan rather reluctantly.

Taelan took the ring and slipped it onto his finger, it fitted perfectly and as Taelan looked at it, it seemed that the ruby flashed once, and he felt a warmth from it.

Both Rul'Thar and Captain Shatterskull looked very proud, the latter enquiring to whether "guests would be staying the night?"

Hellscream looked somewhat uncomfortable at this question; Vark was puzzled at that, but kept watching the large, brown Orc, Hellscream replied, "No, I have pressing business in Orgrimmar, as do my two companions." At that he looked at the Magister who returned his gaze unflinchingly, and then at Rul'Thar, who after a few seconds nodded, looking determined.

This 'exchange' seemed to annoy Hellscream, because he spoke harshly afterwards, "Say your farewells Kor'Kron, we leave soon."

Rul'Thar walked towards his son, who was standing confusedly next to Taelan.

"My Son, politics in the Horde are shifting, that's why we came here." Rul'Thar said quickly in an undertone, he glanced over to Hellscream, who was standing by a portal Jaedris had made, he could glimpse the black metal and red rock of Orgrimmar flickering in it, he turned back to Vark, "In a few days I will call for you, come to Orgrimmar, we'll need you." He looked down at Taelan, "Do you trust him?" he asked suspiciously.

"With my life." Replied Vark.

Rul'Thar looked at Taelan intently; he spoke after a few seconds, "Good, you can bring him aswell."

"Kor'Kron!" Hellscream bellowed from across the camp.

"Lok'tar Ogar Captain" said Rul'Thar, he nodded at Taelan, turned on his heel and strode to the portal.

"Victory or Death." Taelan said ominously. Taelan and Vark nodded sadly, and looked at his father, standing next to Hellscream, who drew breath to address the camp.

"Remember, all of you. Hellscream's eyes are upon you." Hellscream said. He turned and left the camp, the air shimmering behind him for a moment, then fading into nothing.


	3. Transfer

_Thanks for favoriting Sun131, fight scene in this chapter._

**Liberation**

Chapter 3

"What was that about?" Asked Vark.

"Not here." Replied Taelan conspiratorially, he gestured toward their tent and they went inside.

"So?" said Vark quietly.

Taelan sighed, "I suspect Hellscream's going to challenge for leadership, he came here to promote us because he needs 'heroes' to promote his cause, notice how he didn't promote Shatterskull?"

Vark looked stubborn, but saw the logic in his friend's argument; he nodded slowly, "Yes, and that means he and I are of equal rank, which would be...unhealthy for the camp."

"Exactly, so he comes here, makes a show of singling you out, brings along an officer of the Warchief's bodyguard, which is a show of strength, but he just happens to be your father. Then he shows he has the elves support, gives me this." Taelan said, fishing out the ring.

"I was going to ask about that, what is it?" asked Vark.

"It's a Blood Ring, I've read about them, they fuse with the wearer after you give them a drop of blood, then they make your magic stronger and...other things." Taelan's voice trailed off at the end, he looked at Vark apologetically.

"Other things?" Vark scoffed.

"The book I had only mentioned them in passing and it was centuries old." Taelan retorted.

"So...are you 'fusing' with it?" Vark asked sceptically.

In answer Taelan flipped out a dark knife he used in rituals and pricked his index finger with it, letting a single drop fall onto the ruby.

They both waited expectantly, and nothing happened.

"Well that was anti-climatic..." Said Taelan disappointedly.

"Maybe it's broken?" suggested an amused Vark.

Taelan shot him a look, "It will take a while to feel the full effects, or perhaps when I next cast a particularly powerful spell."

"If you say so." Replied Vark, "What did the Magister mean when he said 'you know what it means'?"

Taelan looked slightly smug at this question, "To those who have knowledge of such things, it signifies my ascendancy to the rank of Magister."

"Ah well, that means it's about as valid as my Captaincy doesn't it?" Said Vark equally smugly.

"Shush you." Snapped Taelan, grinning slightly. "But regardless, I've got it now! And I know it's real because Jeadris looked so annoyed about giving it away."

"Well good for you." Replied Vark. "But more importantly, what do we do about Hellscream?"

Taelan was silent for a long time, he was thinking. On one hand they might rise through the ranks because of Hellscream's patronage, but on the other...a traitor's death was always gruesome.

"We do nothing, for the moment." He said eventually, "Hellscream still has to defeat Thrall, and that is by no means an easy feat."

"Very well, but I worry for my father." Said Vark accepting Taelan's decision.

"He's there as the second, he won't be the one fighting." Taelan said.

"Well then, we wait." Said Vark after a small pause.

"Yes we do."

A week had passed, and Vark had received a letter from his father detailing the duel in Orgrimmar and the attack on the capital by the Scourge that interrupted it. This supplemented the rather vague report on a 'new front' that Shatterskull had given the troops. So, as the friends agreed, they would do nothing.

This meant that, as usual, (Captain) Vark, and (Magister) Taelan were on guard duty. They did not expect the attack that afternoon, and, perhaps, if they had, things would have gone differently.

Ignorance is bliss...sometimes...other times it's very dangerous indeed.

Agent 9 dropped down a cliff, slowing his fall with a spell. He had picked up the descriptions and locations of the targets at the usual dead-drop, SI:7 classified these two as highly dangerous, a somewhat erroneous label Agent 9 thought, he had observed them for several days, the big orc, and he _was_ big, wasn't even wearing armour, and the elf was unusually small for one of his kind.

However, Agent 9 was nothing if not cautious; it had kept him alive through the years. As he dodged stealthily through the brushes toward the enemy camp he considered his targets again. He would take the elf first, quietly, then the orc at range, the first they would know of it would be the embrace of the Twisting Nether. He smiled darkly as he somersaulted over a barricade.

The camp was in sight, Agent 9 climbed a tree nearby, it was odd that the conflict was over lumber yet there was still some nearer the orc's camp, but he had other matters to attend to, namely the big, no _huge_ orc staring out into the gloomy forest a few metres away from him. Apparently this orc had killed Swiftarrow quite easily, but, like most of his brutish kind, killed up close.

This wasn't a bad thing, Agent 9 himself often enjoyed making his kills more personal, but it did expose the assassin and this _was_ a bad thing. Agent 9 decided to change his plans; he would kill the orc first. He braced himself against the trunk of the tree, and hooked his feet underneath the branch and reached behind him to get his crossbow, he would have used his throwing knives, or laid some kind of elaborate trap for the beast, but he thought the bolt would be enough to penetrate the orc's thick skull. He took a long, careful aim; the orc was leaning out across the stakes, so close.

Vark was deep in thought, but he felt a strange prickling on the back of his neck, he was waiting for Taelan, who had taken to patrolling round the perimeter. He looked to his right, hoping to-Suddenly something flew out of a tree behind him; it struck him in the back the head. No time for thought, he dropped to the ground, turning his fall into a roll he came up with his axe drawn.

"Taelan! TAELAN!" he bellowed, willing the air in front of him to form a barrier. Another dark shape sped out of the darkness; it abruptly changed direction a foot from his face, deflected by the barrier. It thudded into the ground, standing upright there. A crossbow bolt, Vark knew he had to get to cover, he started running, diving into a ditch, he heard Taelan sprinting up his knife out.

"He's in the trees! Smoke him out!" Vark told him from the safety of his ditch.

Taelan gathered fire in his right hand and sent it speeding toward the tree Vark had indicated, it struck there, exploding and setting the canopy alight. He ran to Vark and helped him out the pit, blood was streaming down the back of his head, the first shot had only been a glancing one, but the orc was dazed. Vark pushed himself upright using the haft of his axe and staggered toward the forest, Taelan close behind.

Agent 9 cursed, jumping from the burning tree to the forest floor below, as he landed he slipped on an exposed root, he cursed again. His shoulder was on fire but he soon patted that out. The orc had moved at the crucial moment, but Agent 9 would still finish them. He could see the pair advancing; he drew one of his long knives and sped out of the brush toward them.

He leapt clear, running low to the ground, throwing himself sideways to avoid a bolt of frost that arced toward him, rolling upright he saw the orc with an axe drawn back, ready to strike, having no time for a proper attack, Agent 9 cannoned into the orcs waist, daggers abandoned, he succeeded in pushing the orc back slightly, but then felt a wracking pain all down his spine, he turned to see the elf, hands moving in arcane matrixes, a Curse of Agony then.

Agent 9 fumbled at the nest of amulets and necklaces under his shirt, his hands shaking and spasming under the magic's influences. He found a null-magic charm and the curses effects fell away, just in time for him to see a shadow fall across him and dodge then axe that buried itself in spot he had been lying in a moment before.

He leapt backwards, carried on a wave of air the orc pushed at him, executing a double backflip and drawing a small pouch of Vanishing Powder from one of his pockets, he landed and hurled it at the ground, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

"He's gone!" yelled Taelan, walking edgily forward.

"No, just vanished, back to back, he'll try and get behind us." Said Vark in reply, squinting at the dissipating cloud of smoke suspiciously.

Taelan came and stood behind him, dagger in its sheath and his hands ready for combat, Vark hefted his axe thoughtfully and closed his eyes, calling to the Spirit of Air to create a dust storm around the to find the invisible assassin. Taelan's eyes widened as the whirlwind enveloped them, he soon saw a shape moving in it, human-sized and heading steadily toward them.

"Get DOWN!" He yelled to Vark, who dropped to the floor, Taelan pushed a ring of fire outward from his core, it ignited the debris swirling around them and the assassin was engulfed in an inferno. Vark quickly pushed himself up and ran toward the kneeling assassin, imbuing his weapon with lightening and hurling it at their attacker. He saw Taelan disappear with a flash just as his weapon was arcing through the air, head over haft, small bolts of electricity flaring out from the edge, he saw the assassin drawing something from a pocket, it glowed blue as Vark's weapon sped toward the attacker, hitting the object, Taelan reappeared with a 'whomph' of air filling the vacuum he had left behind him. The assassin was hurled bodily from the area, his body phasing across the landscape, leaving ghost images every few feet. Taelan too started flickering, he looked down at the blue object, it hovered in the air, fused to Vark's weapon glowing brightly now, he could not tell what it was, it seemed to simply be a rectangle of metal. Vark ran up, he was flickering as well.

"What's happening?" he bellowed, it sounded to him as if the wind was howling in his ears, even though the day was calm.

"I don't kn-" Started Taelan, but then the fused lump of metal flashed blindingly once, and a great wave and expanding corona of blue light enveloped them and Vark, Taelan and the mysterious assassin disappeared, a crater left in the landscape where they had been.

For several hours a growling, roaring noise could be heard in the mountains above the village of Kausganger, sitting in the arms of a valley in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. The villagers looked up to the mountains, many recounted stories of dragons, such as the great Smaug who had been slain above the Long Lake, far across the mountains and to the north. The people of the town began to wonder, and talk and gossip soon reached the village inn, and sitting in the inn, in a dark, quiet corner sat a ranger, he was hooded and cloaked in dark green and gray, and from his waist poked the hilt of a longsword, a dagger on his other hip. He listened to the loud voice of a farmer that swore he'd seen "a bolt of lightning, but up from the ground!"

The ranger abruptly stood, jolting the table and knocking his ale over. He turned to the innkeeper, his face grave. "I go to investigate, if I do not return within a day, send word up river." He strode out, the door swinging behind him.

The unusual noise that the villagers had heard, was not a dragon, nor was it any other sort of beast.

It was the sound of a tear in the world. The tear sucked in all the energy in the area, first, air which made the 'roaring' sound. Then came loose dust from the ground swirled in a spiral above, then, more earth was pulled away, the 'sphere' expanding, and the bushes around the forest were drawn in, all the matter was compressed and formed a cracked morass of grass, stone and wood.

As the pressure was stronger, the tear needed more energy; it scooped great swathes of land away, trees and boulders, all becoming smaller and denser until they formed a perfect sphere. Finally, a bolt of electricity sped up from the earth, striking the spinning, contracting object. It stopped. It disappeared. For a second nothing happened. Then a wave of air sped outwards from the place the thing had hung. Three flashes of light appeared in the air, several feet above the ragged plain. One dropped to a heap on the floor, another, with a 'whomph' of air caught itself on the jagged ground, stumbling it also flopped down. The third flashed into being high up, and was already speeding away, cart-wheeling through the air, limp and random in its movements. Luckily it was intercepted by an old, gnarled thorn tree, which had survived because it was rooted into the stone and boulders.

For Vark, the world slowed, the colours faded out, and flowed different ways, if Vark had ever seen a painting he would have said that the paint had run, but he had not, so instead he likened it to blood mixing in mud. At the same time, Taelan had only just started rematerialising from his "Short Range Linear Teleport" as the book that had taught him how to do it called it, for this reason he thought that the sky was upside down, and also, for some unknown reason, pink. Agent 9 did not have a perspective as he was unconscious, and after rematerialisation, he flew straight into a tree and got stuck there, he awoke, several minutes later in a most uncomfortable position.

Vark awoke first; he was lying in the mud, staring up at the sky. He eased himself up on his elbows and looked around. He could see nothing of the trees and fortifications of Warsong Gulch. He was in a very wide crater, it was spherical, rather than having sides as an angle, and Vark puzzled at this. He stood up, he could see a faint strip of red cloth, he ran over to it and started pulling on it, with a squelching noise Taelan emerged from the mud, covered in it. He spluttered, sucking in great gulps of air and coughing.

"What happened?" he said, using a leaf to brush mud away from his eyes and mouth.

"I just asked that! Right before the 'blue explosion thing'" Vark finished lamely.

"And where is the human that attacked us?" Taelan asked, "And why?"

"I doubt we will get the explanation to that." Vark replied.

"I agree, however, we need to find out where we are." Said Taelan, "What was the human holding when that flash engulfed us?"

"I don't know, perhaps we shall find it somewhere, but we should get out of this crater." Vark insisted.

Taelan agreed, and they climbed out. About them was sheer devastation, a muddy ravaged patch of land, trees uprooted, boulders strewn about the landscape. Vark suggested that they continue into the edges of the forest, as they may have been watched. Taelan agreed with this, and the two friends set out, passing a gnarled thorn tree on the way, a strip of black cloth was caught in a branch high up.

"Perhaps that's where the human landed" Vark said grinning.

Taelan nodded, and looked toward the forest, he thought he had heard something.

"What is it?" asked Vark also alert, he stooped and picked up a branch from the thorn tree, ignoring the sharp 'handle' of his improvised weapon.

"I don't know, but I'm still not ready to do any serious magic, so I won't be of much help." replied Taelan, stepping behind his friend.

Vark nodded grimly and took a step forward, toward the perceived threat. He squinted into the gloom, seeing nothing. A bush rustled, and a man stepped out. "Oh" Vark said relaxing. The man looked at them strangely, his face was covered in shadow from a large, green hood and he wore a long traveling cloak. He held a longsword in his hand. The man started walking forward, sword held in the guard position across his torso.

"Knock him out, we need answers." said Taelan quietly from behind him.

Vark nodded, lowering his branch further to look peaceful, and walking forward slowly himself, he twisted his wrist slightly to make his next strike easier, he was within range, and swept the branch up, feigning an attack. The man's eyes widened with surprise, overbalancing himself in an attempt to block Vark's attack, this allowed Vark to turn, and punch him quickly in the jaw, this knocked the man backwards and he reeled, loosing his footing, Vark quickly surged forwards picking the man bodily from the flood and slamming him into the earth. The man signed once, and then fell into unconsciousness.

Vark looked back at Taelan, "How was that?" he asked.

"_Incredible_, O Master of Combat." Taelan said sarcastically, "You get some wood and make a fire, ill search him."

Fáer Briunnìn, Ranger of the Dúnadan, awoke. The world was dark and he could see stars above him. He was disoriented, and his head throbbed where the orc had hit him. But he had faced worse in his life; he set his jaw and looked around him. The strangers were sitting by a campfire, the orc examined his sword, but it seemed far too small for such a large creature, he was at least twice as tall as the orcs of the Misty Mountains, perhaps some new breed concocted in the black pits of Mordor? The ranger knew he had to escape, to warn the Lord Aragorn. But they had taken everything; he could see the evil elf checking his hood and cloak for size. The Orc said something in his brutish tongue, and the elf _laughed_. This was unheard of, the Elf-folk had always been at war with the dark creatures out of Mordor, an alliance, even between the two, could be catastrophic.

The elf apparently decided that the cloak would indeed fit him, and draped it over himself, he wore some kind of strange robe also, though it looked fit to travel in, and seemed hard wearing. Perhaps he was a wizard, he had once seen Radagast the Brown conversing with wildlife, he wore such a robe. But if the elf was a wizard, Fáer's fortunes had taken a definite fall.

The elf was speaking, using the Black Speech, of which only a few words Fáer had learnt. He wondered where the elf had learnt this, but he had been noticed, the elf had fallen silent, looking over his 'comrade's' huge green shoulder he stood, drawing a thick-bladed dagger from the folds of his voluminous robe. The knife was heavily inlaid with runes and Fáer thought it glowed slightly; perhaps it had some enchantment on it as any elvish weapons did.

The Orc watched his companion, calling something to him, a warning perhaps? Though Fáer could not see why this would be, given that the Orc held his blade and he was virtually naked except for his britches, his hands and legs being bound. The Elf stalked toward him, speaking in a language that Fáer did not understand, the Orc laughed this time, pointing toward Fáer and speaking to the Elf, again using the Black Speech but ending with a word that sounded out of place, perhaps the Elf's name?

"Taelan?" said Fáer uncertainly, uneasy about this Elf with his strange clothes and unnatural weapon. The Elf looked at Fáer at that, he spoke again in the Black Speech, then in what sounded like Elfish, but Fáer did not understand either language, using only the Common speech among his brethren and the simple folk of the countryside. The Elf seemed confused at this. He stepped up to Fáer, reaching out with his right hand, a red ring flashing on his hand; he laid his hand on Fáer's forehead, mumbling another word in a strange language. Fáer felt a sudden energy rush out of him, sounds, images and feelings. His thought even! They all flowed out of him, copies being taken from his mind, flowing into an alien consciousness, a consciousness that to Fáer, felt evil.

Suddenly the Elf stepped back, straightening and staggering slightly, the Orc by the fire got up to help him, Fáer thought this was strange, but nothing he supposed to the magic he had just witnessed, however unwittingly. The Elf looked at him, a cold, wicked aspect to his face, then he _spoke_.

"Fáer Briunnìn, Ranger of the Dúnadan, I have many questions for you."


	4. Directives

**Liberation**

**Chapter 4**

Agent 9 became conscious in a most uncomfortable position; he was dangling by his knife bandolier from a small, decrepit thorn tree. It was uncomfortable as his entire left leg had somehow become caught in a set of vines (with extra thorns) that hung from the aforementioned tree. However, as unusual as his situation was, Agent 9 was not particularly surprised, these sorts of situations happened every other night whilst he was in training. Although, he mused, his current predicament was a result of a magical explosion, rather than excessive drinking and a bet on who could climb a cathedral faster.

He looked down, the drop wasn't far, although he knew he would probably get scratched quite badly on the way, he also could only move one leg, which he used to cut the bandolier, flexing his muscles in a certain way to make a short but very sharp blade shoot out from the heel of his boot. He gently sawed away at the leather strap, which eventually snapped under pressure and dropped him headfirst through the lower branches of the tree onto the ground.

He massaged his leg to get some feeling back into it then limped off into the forest toward the edge of the camp. As he reached the bushes he heard voices and a squelching noise from behind him, turning round he saw his two targets clumsily making their way up the side of a large crater in the centre of the 'clearing'. He observed that an explosion seemed to have taken place, a fairly powerful one if he was to judge, as many of the trees around the outside of the pit had been uprooted and thrown a good distance outward in a rough circle shape. These trees made for excellent cover as the Agent moved around the rim of the crater and further into the forest. He occasionally glanced backwards to check he wasn't being followed, but he adversaries seemed to just be talking.

Then he started. He heard shouting from the clearing, keeping out of sight he quickly scaled one of the fallen trees, using the large clods of earth in the roots to keep out of sight. He was just in time to see the big Orc pick a charging man up and slam him into the floor. The man _crunched_ as he fell.

"Ouch" muttered Agent 9. He had decided that he would abandon this contract, he'd say that the two were too heavily guarded, and that he had tried to assassinate them but failed. He crept back towards the trees that were still standing, bringing another portal device from his cloak, he was lucky these were undamaged, he thought they might have malfunctioned after his fall and might not work, but the one in his hand, and, as he patted down his cloak, the rest of his 'contingency measures' seemed all to be in place. He glanced back over his shoulder to make sure nothing was near to interrupt the teleport and applied pressure to the middle.

Nothing happened.

He felt a slight tremor go through the device, but then it sat inert, this was most puzzling, the small pieces of metal had always worked before, even between continents, even areas high in latent magic. This worried Agent 9, he could feel waves of energy practically rolling off the small piece of metal, but no matter how he manipulated, prodded, and eventually hit it with a rock, it would not work.

This worried Agent 9, ever since he had brought the devices several years ago they had always worked, always getting him out of tough situations and close calls, so it alarmed him somewhat that it didn't work now.

He decided he had to find out where he was; perhaps the man his targets had caught knew something about it. He doubted it, probably just some farmer he though, but it was worth a try. Agent 9 put the device back into a pocket in his jacket and made his way back toward the clearing, night was falling and the Orc was getting a fire going whilst the small elf searched the man, who lay unconscious on the floor. Half an hour passed with not much happening and the Agent hiding in some bushes, quietly observing his prey. The elf called something to the large Orc and passed him the unconscious man's sword, Agent 9 thought it looked rather small for the Orc, but he seemed pleased to have a proper weapon. Agent 9 himself had many concealed knives and various other dastardly object about his person, and was therefore not too worried about his enemies being armed. The Orc got a small campfire going, then wandered off, presumably to scout the perimeter, eventually returning with a dead rabbit, which he proceeded to prepare to eat, cooking it on a spit on his improvised 'oven'. Meanwhile, the elf had found several things in the man's pockets, several gold coins, "_Good to know the currency is the same, wherever we are." _ Thought Agent 9 at that, the elf also sound lots of documents that looked important, and was busying himself trying to understand them, he took them over to the Orc's rabbit and tore off a chunk, careful not to drip the juices of the unfortunately deceased animal onto the papers.

After a while, Agent 9 started creeping closer, he wanted to get a good look at the man on the floor, but at the same time not be seen, he lay down behind a log and waited.

"Find out who he is yet?" asked Vark, munching on a rabbit leg.

Taelan sat, still reading the documents, "Seems to be someone from Lorderon, the language bears similarity with those of that area, but its not exact and I cant understand it, although I would guess that these are orders of some sort, judging by the layout." He said, waving the offending piece of paper at his friend.

Vark looked thoughtful at this, "Maybe it's in code?" he asked.

"Perhaps, but I doubt it, there's no effort to conceal what it says and no repeating patterns from what I can tell, I think it's just an older variation of the language, or some other form of dialect." Explained Taelan, briefly holding the document upside down in an attempt to make it more readable.

Vark laughed at his friend's antics, "So," he said, after swallowing another mouthful of food, "What are our options?" he asked.

Taelan looked thoughtful at this, setting the papers down on a dry patch of grass, he sat in deep thought, steeping his fingers and resting his chin on them. "What we need is information." He said, then having an idea, he went over the events that brought them here. "How did this happen?" he asked, indicating the devastation around them.

Vark also thought for a moment, "That assassin was trying to escape, you blinked closer to him and I threw my axe at him, but it hit something in his hand, then I ran up and asked what was going on, then everything went blue and that's about all I know." He said.

Taelan nodded, "Did you see what he was holding?" he asked, receiving a shake of the head from Vark he went through the possibilities. "Well he seemed to be retreating, so maybe it was a teleporter, you know, the electric kind the gnomes make?"

"_Bloody gnomes_" Vark grumbled under his breath.

"So," continued Taelan grinning, "perhaps your throw disrupted the teleport, combined with my blink, and made it mess up?" he asked, theoretical magic was not his strong point.

Vark also wondered at this. However, both their musings were cut short by the sounds of their captive waking up. Vark dropped his food in the fire, the grizzle sizzling in the embers and picked up the man's sword, hefting it he nodded to Taelan, who got up and went to interrogate the man, Taelan drew his knife and started to question the man on the floor. However, their prisoner apparently did not understand them and simply started resolutely back at Taelan, Vark shifted in his seat ready to go to his comrade's aid if the need should arise.

"Who are you?" Taelan called over to the man, still stalking toward the prisoner, who just sat there, Talean looked back at Vark, an eyebrow raised questioningly. Vark nodded once, knowing what was coming next, he once again contemplated the usefulness of his friend's magic.

Taelan put his hand on the man's head, his new ring flashing brightly, and absorbed the man's knowledge, it would take him a while to categorise it, and given that the pair had invented the particular technique themselves no-one else knew about it, apart from their previous captives, but they were all dead and their ghosts exorcised, so they weren't telling anyone. Taelan finished with the man and staggered back, this was a common occurrence during the spell, with the entirety of the man's life absorbed as well as all his knowledge and experiences it tended to take Taelan a while to be able to accurately and safely use it all. Vark stood up and went over to his friend, standing behind the man who now lay in shock on the muddy ground.

Taelan began to speak in another language, presumably the captive's, asking him questions, the man answered him, slowly at first, and very suspicious of the elf's motives. After about half an hour Taelan had confirmed most of what he had taken from the man's mind, and looked at Vark, nodded once and went back to the fire. Vark stooped down, took the man's head in his hands, and twisted it violently. The man's eyes widened suddenly in realisation, then a loud crack that rang through the clearing was heard and the man slumped to the ground, his head twisted unnaturally to the side.

Vark straightened up and followed his friend to the fire. Waiting for him to speak before asking any questions. He stuck the sword he had been holding in the ground, and sat down, Taelan was sitting across the fire, staring into the flames, Vark knew his friend used this as a meditative technique, one Vark had taught him in fact.

"We have a problem." Said Taelan eventually, looking up from the fire and toward Vark.

"What?" asked Vark obviously.

"We are on a different world." Said Taelan, pausing to let this revelation sink in. "Have you noticed the stars?", he motioned upwards at the night sky. "Even Draenor has similar starts and clusters to Azeroth, but we are far far away from anything familiar, even with the differences between different stars in space and the rumours of what the Draenei have uncovered, we may even be in a different dimension." He said, still looking up.

"Can we get back?" Asked Vark.

"No, not yet at least, I have no idea how we got here, and that is just as important. Also even if I did know, I would need a lot of equipment and I would probably have to build a lot of it, given the technological level of this world." Replied Taelan, looking back down.

Vark thought for a while after that, then abruptly picked up the sword and hurled it into the undergrowth, a rare display of emotion for him to show. He then stood and started pacing, turning ever few steps, his body language betraying his frustration. "So where are we?" he finally asked, pausing briefly in his walk to ask the question.

"Middle Earth." Answered Taelan, "An environment similar to the Eastern Kingdoms' but with obviously different distribution, but a similar political situation."

Vark finally stopped, interested at his friend's information. "In what way?" he asked, sitting back on his log.

"The world in inhabited by several races of note, Elves are the oldest, similar to the High Elves before the Sundering, then Men, of who there are several types, most notably the '_Númenóreans'" __at this strange word Vark looked puzzled._

_"West?" he interrupted, suddenly getting a flash of understanding from his elemental side, Taelan nodded at this interruption._

_"Actually it translates to 'Westernesse' or 'most Western' in what the people here call the 'Common Tongue' but apparently this particular people sailed away from Númenór, due to a catastrophe of some kind, and landed here. They had a large empire but it fell into ruin, due to a number of factors that are currently unimportant, however, one of these factors that is rather important in my explanation, sits before me." Taelan explained, grinning and looking at Vark._

_"Orcs" Vark said quickly, suddenly more interested in the story._

_"Well done" replied Taelan happily, "Apparently you destroyed their empire and are carved out a territory of your own."_

_"theres a catch." Said Vark knowing his friend too well._

_"There is, but I'll get to that later. After the Orcs there are goblins, quite similar to our own 'home bred type' actually, and also ogres, but in this world they are called trolls and are bigger than the ogres at home. Also Orcs and goblins ride wolves, also known as wargs." Said Taelan._

_Vark nodded at this, happy that some things were the same wherever you went. "Anyone else significant?" He asked._

_"Dwarves." Taelan replied, "They seem to be identical to the ones living in Ironforge, except they aren't nearly as advanced, probably because gnomes don't exist here."_

_This threw Vark slightly, but he quickly recovered, "What a pity." He said sarcastically, "We won't have anything to punt!"_

_Taelan started laughing at this, remembering Vark's strategy when confronted with a gnomish mage when on duty, simply to run up and kick it in the chest, at which point it sailed halfway across the battlefield and collided with the enemy commander, winning them the battle. Vark received a commendation for this. _

"_Quick thinking and unorthodox strategy!_" Taelan gasped between laughs.

"Okay stop now." Vark said reluctantly, "Keep going with your story."

Taelan nodded and composed himself, calming down from the amusing memory. "Well actually, we do have gnomes…sort of." He replied. Vark look quizzically at him at this. "They're called the _Holbytla_ or Hobbits for short." Taelan smiled at this. "No pun intended there, but when I said 'sort of' what I meant was that they look like gnomes, to an extent, but don't have the same character, and most of them live in a land called 'Shire', for the most part, they seem to be just really short humans."

"I'd punt that" said Vark darkly, smiling in a rather menacing way.

"I doubt you'll get chance to. They keep to themselves." Taelan replied. "So there we have the so called 'Good Races'"

"So there we have the so called 'catch'" Said Vark ironically, "Let me guess. We've landed in the First War." He said.

"A surprisingly accurate analogy actually." Taelan said. "But instead of the Burning Legion, who doesn't seem to exist here, there's the Dark Lord Sauron."

"Now that is interesting, we know the Legion moves from planet to planet, but to see that they haven't yet got to here implies that we are really quite far away from their territory." Mused Vark.

"Indeed, but there are similar circumstances, Sauron is some kind of powerful being from a race called the 'Valar' who seemed to be between the Titans and demons like _Kil_'_jaeden_ in terms of power. However, Sauron is only a lieutenant to another called Morgoth, but we don't need to worry about him because he was apparently chained and cast through something known only as the 'Door of Night' but is prophesied to return during the end of days and be finally defeated in Dagor Dagorath which translates as 'Final Battle'." Explained Taelan, taking a breath after speaking for so long.

"I see, tell me more about this 'Sauron'" Vark replied after digesting the information. "I also assume you're getting this information from legends and suchlike?" He asked.

Taelan nodded his assent, "Yes, but Sauron is a real threat, however is somewhat diminished of late."

"In what way?" asked Vark.

"He lost his jewellery" replied Taelan rather flippantly.

"Explain" said Vark.

"Sauron reigned in the land of Mordor, also known as the 'Land of Shadow' it is a wasteland of fire and other nasty things, but he desired greater power, so gathered and corrupted various races, the Orcs foremost, into a great army in secret, which he was going to use to conquer Middle Earth. But on the outside, he was just a very powerful sorcerer, and using this deception he communicated with the 'Free Peoples' in an attempt to subvert them to his purposes." Taelan paused in his explanation, wishing they had invented a way of _giving _rather than taking knowledge, it would have made this whole excersise superfluous, "So, Sauron goes to the dwarves and elves, them being the most skilled at forging and magic respectively, and he learns from them, then he gifts them with rings." He said.

Vark was starting to understand where this was going, "And presumably the rings are magically powerful and very useful to the users."

"Exactly!" exclaimed Taelan, pleased that his friend was picking it up so quickly. "Three rings were given to the Elves, seven to the Dwarf, and nine to great Kings of Men. But, another ring was made in secret in Sauron's fortress, Sauron enchanted this ring during its forging to hold dominion over the others, and it was, and is, known as the Great Ring of Power."

Waiting to check that Vark had understood everything he continued, "Upon the ring, Sauron left this inscription; Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."

"That sounds oddly familiar." Said Vark, considering the language.

"It should." Taelan replied, "Its structure is very similar to some of the older Clan's orcish, particularly the Mag'har, and I am fairly sure it is also similar phonetically. The inscription translates into "One Ring to Rule Them All, One Ring to Find Them, One Ring to Bring Them All, and in the Darkness Bind Them."

Taelan paused as Vark digested this information, Taelan also considered it, but continued his tale, "Eventually Sauron attacked and several centuries of war followed, but he was defeated, and retreated into Mordor, then an Alliance of Men and Elves attacked his stronghold, and in the Battle of Dagorlad the One Ring was cut from his hand by Isildur, son of the King, Elendil and was then claimed by Isildur. But later the Ring betrayed Isildur, so that he was slain by orcs at Gladden Fields, and the Ring was lost for centuries."

"And now the people of Middle Earth live in peace and harmony, working together in a spirit of brotherhood and friendship?" Asked Vark.

Taelan laughed at this, "Hardly!" he scoffed, "Sauron's spirit now exists as a huge, lidless, flame wreathed Eye atop his fortress of Barad-dûr. And even worse! These" he paused and waved the sheaf of parchment at his friend, "these, tell us that the One Ring has been found again, and the Dark Lord has dispatched his servants after it, to get it back to him and bring him once again to full power!"

"And now some good news please." Said Vark cheerfully.

"The Rangers, a group of Men and Elves and, surprisingly enough, half-breeds, are watching the Shire and preventing it from being attacked, also an Elf-Lord called Elrond is organising a council to decide what to do, oh, and according to these, one of the Hobbits has the Ring now and will soon make his way to the council to present the Ring." Explained Taelan, "So all is not lost."

"So what do we do?" Asked Vark, he had somewhat of a plan, but didn't want to share it just yet.

Taelan was quiet at this question, they had several options, but none of them however was particularly promising. After a minutes silence, he spoke, "We spy on this council." He said.

"Um, okay then." Vark said, this was not his idea or anywhere near it, but he decided he'd go with it. Then, thinking that his friend may have left something out, "Where are we in relation to this council?" He asked.

"About twenty miles north-west, we are in a forest called the 'Trollshaws', which understandably is inhabited by trolls, there is also a small village of farmers and woodcutters south, they saw our teleportation and that ranger came up to investigate, tough luck for him." He said, motioning to the aforesaid corpse.

"Well while the night is young, we need to get some things done, first I need a weapon, my axe disappeared after I threw it, and we will also need something more than that cloak to cover you, stealth should be our priority here, rather than speed, if as you say the Ring has not yet set out." Vark said, and stood up and started down the slope southwards.

"True, but this news is old, according to the papers today is the 22nd of October, the Ring having set out a month ago, and from the man's knowledge the Ring should reach Rivendell, the home of the elf Elrond, in a few days. Therefore, speed is fairly important, but I also agree about stealth. I can maintain an illusion spell for glamour, to impersonate the ranger, go down and buy a large cloak, better make it two to disguise you, but we'll never pass you off as human, or an elf for that matter, you're too big, what are you now?" Taelan asked amusedly, "Eight feet or something?"

Vark puffed out his chest with pride, "_Nine_, Nine feet now, for your information."

Taelan shook his head, "So I'll have to go down, mind you, we might not have to be disguised for long, I might have a plan."

Vark looked down at his friend from all his Nine feet of height. "What is it?" He asked, navigating around a boulder and down the slope toward the village.

Taelan waved him off, "No, not yet, too many variables, and too little information, the man knew a lot, but I'm still trying to get my head round it all, furthermore, he was traveling for a long time, so much of the information is out of date."

"Alright, so you go down and steal some things, come back up and we, make our way to Rivendell?" asked Vark, hurdling a small stream.

Taelan didn't reply at first, having levitated his way across the stream instead of jumping, he touched town on the bank and resumed walking, "Something like that, I might not need to steal, I could probably just ask for it, say I ran into an huge, great beast of an Orc, who attacked me, but I drove it off, however I lost my sword so I need a new one, I also found that it had taken captive a young elf who needed a cloak to keep him warm, him being distrustful of large groups of people." Taelan said, smiling as he made up his 'encounter'.

Vark laughed at this, "The best lies have some truth in them after all." He said.

Taelan shrugged, "The story doesn't matter as long as we get what we need."

Vark nodded at this, then stopped, he thought he had heard something. "Wait" he said softly.

Taelan also stopped, and looked around him, into the gloom of the forest.

Agent 9 cursed, that Orc's hearing was incredible, and it was the second time he had heard the Agent, which was impossible, given that he was making absolutely no noise! His training saw to that. Maybe he was _sensing_ the Agent of something. Regardless Agent 9 knew he could only keep up his stealth for a short while with these two, both seemed unnaturally perceptive. Well he knew he would have to come out soon, either to murder the two or to help them. After a few seconds making a decision, he cupped his hands to his mouth.

"Oi! You two!" he yelled, a trifle inelegant but it served its purpose. He then took of his bandolier and belt, carefully removing several of his poisons and his garrotting kit, he wrapped them up in a bundle and lobbed them toward the pair, landing a few feet away from them it spilled open, showing lots of his weapons, he then yelled at them again, "Truce!" then stepped out into view of the suspicious pair.

He held his hands up in a gesture of non-aggression, both of them were ready for combat.

"What do you want?" The Orc asked angrily, obviously recognising him from several hours ago.

"According to your friend, there is no Alliance here, and therefore, I have no allegiance to anyone here and therefore, no reason for me to try and kill you, also, he's the one with the info." Agent 9 said, pointing to the elf.

The big Orc looked slightly puzzled at that, then understanding, he turned to the elf, who shrugged at him, leaving the decision to the Orc, Agent 9 knew he would be hard-pressed to defend himself against these two without his weapons and devices, and no to mention without a surprise attack, but the die was cast and he would live (or die) by the Orc's decision. Then he noticed something strange happening, the brances above the pair were rustling and actually _moving_ toward the Orc, they formed an arch over him, and a gentle breeze rushed through the trees, Agent 9 felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

"He comes with us" The Orc said, opening his eyes, the trees and forest abruptly went back to normal.

The elf looked at the Agent suspiciously, "Sure? I could vaporise him if you'd prefer." He said, glancing at Agent 9.

Said Agent admitted that he was scared at that, but also wanted to know why the Orc was keeping him. "Why?" he asked the Orc, stepping forward.

"The Earth has spoken." The Orc replied mysteriously, "Name and Skills." He said, looking at the Agent.

"Agent 9, SI:7, Alliance Intelligence." Replied Agent 9, standing to attention in the face of an authority figure.

"Alliance Intelligence doesn't exist here Nine" Said the Orc, "Get your stuff, you're going in with Taelan, I assume you heard the plan?" The newly christened 'Nine' nodded at this, and the Orc turned back and kept going down the slope, "I'm by the way, Captain Vark, Warsong Outriders. Just Vark now, he's Magister Taelan, Blood Mage of the Sin'Dorei" Vark said, motioning to Taelan.

Nine absorbed this, and walked toward his bundle, picking it up he replaced his things and fell into step with the elf, who looked at him quizzically.

"What was that thing you had that made all this happen?" the elf asked, quite calmly, Nine thought he would be more angry at him for unintentionally stranding them all there.

"One of these." Replied Nine, reaching under his cloak to bring out one of the portal devices. He passed it to Taelan who examined it, "It's an instant teleport device, that one's set to SI:7 Headquarters, we contracted some gnomes to make them for us to get Agents out of dodgy situations." Nine said, explaining the device.

"And you activated it, but Vark's axe disrupted it and it focused on the next teleport matrix it could find, namely my spell." Said Taelan, handing the device back.

"Something like that." Nine replied shrugging. He then directed his attention toward the Orc a few paces in front of him, "What happened back there?" he called out to Vark.

"I was communing with the Earth, it said you could be trusted, otherwise you'd be dead." Vark said bluntly.

"_Oh"_ mouthed Nine, then was quiet, they had come to a cliff, and had to find a way down, he began getting a thin rope out from around his waist, and looked for a convenient stump or something to drape it around. But the elf apparently had more to say.

"He may not know you so well, but _I_ do, so, what happened back there?" Taelan asked.

Vark chuckled at this, "Try a summoning spell." He said, "An imp perhaps."

Taelan looked at him strangely, but shrugged and pulled out some powder from his robe and drew a rough circle with it on the ground. He stood in it and raised his arms, chanting under his breath he closed his eyes, a soft purple light emanating from under his lids and giving him an otherworldly appearance. After a few minutes of what Nine considered fairly easy magic, (given that it was one of the easier demons to bind and summon since most Warlocks learnt the spell quite early on), nothing happened.

Taelan opened his eyes and stopped chanting, "I can't" he said, rather obviously but also quite unusually in Nine's opinion, Taelan was fairly powerful so it should have been easy for him.

"I know" said Vark, "Just testing a theory, now try a water elemental."

Taelan redrew the circle and re-commenced the ritual, the only difference being that his eyes went blue this time. However, the same thing happened, absoutly noting.

"I can't" Taelan said again, looked rather frustrated this time.

Vark inexplicably smiled at this, "That is because Norgannon never came here. And thus, Malygos never existed here, and thus, magic itself does not exist here." He said, shocking his companions.

"B-But the ranger's memories speak of wizards!" Taelan said, wrenching himself out of the shock of this revelation.

Vark shook his head at this, "They are a race called the Maiar, similar to the Valar, of which Sauron is one." Vark looked again at the circle of power on the floor, "That little test was me finding out if the magical and elemental forces on this planet were sentient."

"I see, I couldn't summon the imp because demons just don't exist here and I couldn't summon the elemental because the various Wardens of Water and etcetera also don't exist here." Taelan said, finally understanding. Then he looked at Vark again, then raised his hand and shot a fireball into a rock, melting it slightly.

"Wow" said Nine, "That was far more powerful than it should have been !" He said, looking at Taelan who was examining his hand as if it were a foreign object.

Taelan tried a frostbolt this time, shooting it at the same rock and turning it a sizable chunk of it into solid ice. He looked up at Vark standing at the edge of the cliff. "Explain." He commanded, putting his hands on his hips.

Vark laughed at this. "When you throw a fireball, or use any of your magic, you have to subjugate it to your will do you not?" Vark asked.

Nine finally understood. "Of course! Since the Wardens don't exist there are no elementals which means elemental magic, of which arcane is just a conglomerate, exists without limits!" he looked at Taelan, "You just got a massive power boost." He said, eyeing the elf.

"But, I got an even bigger one." Said Vark from behind them. "As there are no shamans, and very few of these 'wizards' the latent power of the earth is relatively untapped, if you think about it the earth sustains an incredible amount, what with thousands of mages and shamans at the same time using spells, all of which rely on the energy flow of the earth, and then take into account the millions of elementals, everywhere, from ones like Therazane and Ragnaros, to the type that inhabit a campfire. This means that even though mages and other magic users are rare here, they are very powerful." Vark explained. "Watch this." He said, then he crouched, kneeling on the floor, facing out over the cliff, he laid his hands on the floor, and energy streamed into them, light pulsing through his veins, collecting in his chest and his head, eventually shining so brightly the other two had to look away. They felt the earth shake, and much of the surrounding foliage burst into flame, but light shone from the plants as well, so that even though the flames flickered and danced nothing was harmed, the man and the elf heard a peal of thunder and looked upwards, clouds had gathered and lightning filled the sky, forking in impossible directions, rain thudded down, water torrenting down their bodies and through the trees around them. Taelan felt invigorated, energy flooding into him from the rain and the plants around him. He looked toward Vark, now a hulking shining being, Vark stood and walked toward them, as he walked small flowers grew from his footprints, the flames dwindled and faded into nothingness or were extinguished by the rain, which also faded away and the clouds dissipated, the moon shining on Vark and making him look like he had silver skin.

The Orc stopped before them, the light from his body fading and the natural green colour of his skin returning, He looked down at the ground, then up at his friends.

"We have been given a task." He said, Taelan and Nine looked up and him expectantly, the unnatural energy that had flooded their systems a moment ago all but gone. "We have been given authority over Arda, you are both shamans now, you will adapt to your new powers, but our first task is apparently to destroy Sauron, which Arda has inferred is our greatest threat, at the moment."

"Arda?" Nine asked, in light of this new information he did not really know what to think.

"The name of this planet, I have communed with its spirit, and it was apparently impressed with me." Said Vark not-so-modestly.

Taelan grinned at this, "So what do we do now? Can we 'shape the world as we please and subjugate its creatures for our evil purposes'?" he said sarcastically.

Nine grinned at this, he was wondering about it as well.

"No, we've only been given a power boost, but we don't command, or rather we do, but only through sufferance, rather than actual dominion." Vark explained, "But, as I think you have already guessed." He looked at Taelan at this point. "We have been given was I might call 'free reign'"

"For the Greater Good? Or something similar?" Taelan asked, these were not the normal stipulations of power.

"Effectively yes, we appear to be a new type of shamen." Vark replied.

"Right, so what do we actually do now? Are we still headed to Rivendell?" Nine asked, he didn't know if this changed things or not.

"No." Said Vark, shaking his head, "I can maintain surveillance on the council once it starts, then have it relayed back to be later on, at the moment we are going to Mount Fang."

"Where?" Asked Nine puzzled but accepting of the situation.

"Isengard." Taelan replied, referring to another of the ranger's memories, which apparently he understood perfectly now after his 'encounter' with Arda. "The stronghold of a wizard named Saruman. He is head of the White Council, a group of powerful individuals opposed to The Red Eye."

Vark laughed at this, "Quite the contrary, he is working with Saruman, breeding an army in the caves below Isengard and preparing to launch an attack on the country of Rohan."

This was some news to Taelan, Vark's information and that of the ranger's conflicting. "Why?" he asked.

"He was corrupted by an artefact called a _Palantír" _explained Vark, "He now serves Sauron, we're going to kill him."

"And how exactly do we do that?" asked Nine, "We can't attack if he has an army just sitting there, also as you say he is a wizard and previously one of the most powerful ones at that."

Vark grinned at that again, "We three are now easily more powerful than him. However, for my plan to work we can't expose ourselves. Firstly, I will say that I am an Emissary of Mordor, that should get us through the gate, then eventually we will come to the wizard himself, at which point I, being the strongest will distract him, and Taelan here will neutralise his powers, whilst we are doing that, Nine can stab him in the face or something, but I'll leave the actual killing blow to you." He said, looking at Nine.

Taelan and Nine digested their assignments and kept walking, eventually Nine got tired of trekking across the countryside and sped up to fall into step with Vark.

"Are we walking all the way?" he asked, Taelan nodding in agreement.

Vark looked thoughtful at this, "Depends if you mind how we get there." He said mysteriously.

Taelan broke into a jog to join the other two, having to walk faster to compensate for his stature. "What are our options?" he asked, a variety of transport flowing through his mind, horses foremost, he supposed they could perhaps steal some along the way. "Walking we should take perhaps two weeks to get to Isengard, that is, if we do not encounter some hardship along the way. Or local resistance. Particularly to you" He said, nodding toward Vark.

"True" said Vark, "But you do not take into account terrain, which would probably bring the journey up to three weeks, at the least, however, I may be able to arrange transport or an…alternative…sort."

The other twos eyebrows were raised at this, but they remained silent, Taelan knowing when his friend was planning and Nine following the elf's lead.

They walked in silence for several hours, not encountering any wildlife, or other locals, and eventually came to a large river.

"The Loudwater." Said Taelan in explanation, "There is no crossing for several leagues, one at the Fords of Bruinen, but I would not cross there." He said, shivering slightly.

Nine gave him a questioning look, Vark having accepted Taelan's reference, even if he did not fully understand it. In response Taelan indicated the water, "This marks the boundaries of Elrond's domain, and he has some measure of control over the water. And he would therefore know of our presence here if he does not already."

Vark then ruined their enthusiasm with the revelation that "He does." Taelan was obviously shocked at this, but Vark continued "Anyone of a reasonably level of magical power knows that _something_ happened last night, the levels of power we demonstrated on that cliff effectively wrote 'we are here' in forty-foot letters that were on fire for all to see, I have no doubt that both Sauron and Saruman have knowledge that a new power has risen."

Vark then walked down toward the shore, the river was fairly wide, and they doubted that they could swim it quickly, also taking into account that neither Vark nor Taelan had ever needed to go swimming, and therefore did not know how to.

Nine, following this line of reasoning, posed a question. "Sooooo?"

Taelan chucked at this, turning toward Nine he held out his hands and pointed them palm downwards, and proceeded to fly across, alighting gracefully on the opposite bank.

Vark nodded toward their recently grounded friend, "I would use the phrase 'we will cross that bridge when we come to it', but it would be ridiculous here, so instead, we make our own bridge." Vark then knelt on the bank, placing a hand on the stony shore, and a bridge of earth formed across the river, Vark stood, then held out an arm to allow Nine to walk (very unsteadily) across the bridge.

Later on, the two friends and their new companion/assassin made camp by a small pond, they arranged the fire to keep them warm during the night, having no natural ways of making fire, Taelan directed a stream of it from his palm to the piled wood, igniting it. Vark congratulated him on his precision and lay down to rest." Our transport will arrive in the morning." Said the Orc, waking the other two up, they tried to question him about it, but he would not be drawn on the subject, they soon fell back to sleep, but Vark stayed awake. He got up and walked into the forest, away from their campsite, listening to the sounds of the forest around him, small birds called out to each other and nocturnal mammals snuffled in the leaf-litter.

Vark seated himself under a large oak tree, a red squirrel scurried up the branches at his approach and sat in the leaves above him. As he sat, he called out to his 'transport'.

"_Brother Wolf, we await you as the sun rises."_

Several minutes passed, his message being transmitted across the plains to the footstep of the Misty Mountains to the east, but after this time, a response came back, a set of growls and yelps.

"_We come Strange One, if you still hold true."_

"_I do, our pack will be acknowledged." _

"_We will be there as the sun, come to a ridge overlooking the mountains at dawn and we will be there."_

Satisfied, Vark stood and went back to camp, knowing that he would not need sleep tonight, he sat by the fire and played with the flames, moulding them into shapes and figures, after some time, he heard a screech above him, looking up he saw a shadow pass over the moon. No doubt one of the great eagles that lived in the peaks of the Mountains, perhaps spying on them, we he could do nothing about it now and lay down, at least giving himself the illusion of sleep. He lay like that for several hours, then, when he saw the sky growing light above the mountains, at this, roused himself and his companions and guided them to the hill that was their rendezvous.

His companions were most puzzled by their seemingly random location, for Nine's part, he was very appreciative of the landscape, usually having little time for thought for natural beauty. Taelan meanwhile was rather bored, not being interested in the landscape, he sat on a rock and practised levitating a pebble he had found. At the appointed hour, just as the sun's rays crested over the snowy peaks of the mountains the group heard howls.


	5. Traveling

_Point the First, to Gavoon, my first ever reviewer, I will definitely not be abandoning this story. I suspect the longest period I'll go without updating with be two weeks, and that would mean the update would be proportional to the time it took me to do so. Anyway, Thanks!_

_Point the Second: I haven't yet deciphered the mysteries of FanFiction page breaks, and given my little stars don't seem to be working I'm changing them to a series of 'ooo's like this:_

**Lorem Ipsum**

**oooOOOooo**

**Lorem Ipsum**

_Or something along those lines, I'll probably vary them so you all don't get bored._

_Point the Third, I'm not very happy with the last chapter, it felt too…esoteric, sort of like I exposed more than I would, it was like 'what would happen if they were all shamans?...let's find out!' and so on, and that was…vexing, so I may or may not retcon that in future, or just go back and edit the chapter, not sure yet, I'll see how it goes._

_Point the Fourth; I will be experimenting with different formats and punctuation to reflect characters thoughts and other things, so let me know if you (don't) like it._

_Thanks for all the views by the way, as of this chapter's writing Liberation has 404 views, an amusing, if slightly ominous coincidence I thought._

_And now, on with the story!_

**Liberation**

**Chapter 5**

_What am I now?_

Nine watched the dawn, heard the howls.

_What is my purpose?_

He freely admitted to himself that he had no idea what was going on. Especially after Vark's revelation last night. Before he had a fairly reasonable existence as an assassin for the intelligence network of his species, and one of the best he thought with a grin.

It wasn't even as if he was unhappy with his life then, he was…content, just, being there, he knew his job was a fairly evil one, no matter how his instructors had justified it to him.

_Greater Good Indeed._ He thought with a snort.

His doubts returned.

_What now?_ He asked himself, unsure of his directives, he knew Vark had some huge over-arching plan, a plan he could help bring about if he so chose. He held no particular loyalty beyond gold for his species, after growing up in the backstreets of Stormwind's Old Town he knew to what depths of depravity humans could fall to.

_Bloody Orcs at least had an excuse._ He thought bitterly, very convenient things demonic curses.

Nine counted up his options, he couldn't return home, the elf had made that much plain, nor could he seek sanctuary with any of the races on this 'Middle Earth', they would (rightfully) accuse him of being a spy, this left him with his 'targets'

Nine did not like being forced into things; however in this case, it was actually his fault, if he hadn't attacked those two this whole business would never have happened. This made Nine sad, well, not actually sad, he knew that with his new friends they could carve up this world, but he felt somewhat regretful. There was the Pig and Whistle, and it's rather generous bartender, there was all his fellow trainees, all dead now, but still, and then there was Jane.

No, he wouldn't think about Jane.

oooOOOooo

The strangers in a strange land stood together, or in Vark's case, sat, Taelan was positively buzzing with anticipation, since coming to 'Middle Earth' he had been planning, going over the knowledge he had ripped from the ranger's mind. It was very strange to him, and quite fragmented, but he was learning quickly. He did occasionally have to resist cackling with glee, as that might look…out of place, but he was just so excited, a _whole_ new world to carve up. Vark had strength, he had knowledge and arcane power, and Nine had a wealth of knowledge about all sorts of skulduggery and backstabbing and various other fun things Taelan had heard about. He was slightly curious about something though.

"What's your actual name?" he asked, looking over to his new friend. Nine gave him a look at this, and deliberately looked away toward some mountains.

"Alright, just asking." Said Taelan, disappointed.

Vark snorted, "He _is _a secret agent you know, he isn't about to go telling random people about things like that."

Taelan was quite for a moment. "True." He eventually allowed.

"Vark." Nine called out, "Do you think we should leave before those wolves get here?"

"Certainly not." Said Vark in response, "Just wait and see."

Nine nodded, and started pacing restlessly. Taelan clambered up a boulder and posed heroically against the skyline, head raised, arm held out above him. However, his self-appreciation was cut short, as Vark threw a rock at him, and he got down. Nine found this very amusing, but kept it to himself, not wanting the to give the elf even more attention, he walked to Vark and stood by him, Taelan taking up the other flank, a sense of anticipation as palpable in the air.

"Here they are." Said Vark, nodding toward the treeline at the foot of the hill.

For a few moments Taelan had no idea what his friend was talking about, then he saw the foliage rustling and parting to reveal several low forms, in the early morning light he could make out the shapes of what he assumed were wolves, at this point he understood what Vark had meant by 'transport'.

The creatures in question looked a lot like wolves, but were stouter, with shortened muzzles and stockier bodies, Taelan thought they looked a lot like large hyenas, with longer fangs and tails. They had large ears and out of the three that had appeared one was a jet black colour, the others being grey and brown respectively. The black one seemed to lead, and had scars covering its body, the grey surged forward, only to be brought back by a snap and a growl from the black.

Vark looked at his friends, "Stay here." He commanded, then made his way forward, walking slowly eyes fixed on the black wolf.

_We are here Strange One._

Vark halted before the wolf, looking into its eyes.

_You will carry us?_

The wolf open its mouth in what Vark assumed was a close approximation of a smile, its fangs, yellow knives in its mouth, misty breath forming and dissipating in the cold morning air.

_My Brothers and I will bear you, and you will free those in the Black Tower._

Vark nodded once, and leant forward, drawing one of the knives Nine had given him, he cut into the palm of his hand, black blood oozed out, running down his fingers and dripping onto the ground, he offered it to the wolf, who turned its head, regarding it closely.

_It is done._

With that, all three wolves threw back their heads and howled eerily, filling the sheltered valley with sound. Vark stood, he too raised his head and bellowed into the sky in what his ancestors had called an Oath Call. Taelan rushed forward, knowing its significance, Nine following on his heels. The howls rang and reverberated across the arms of the mountains, echoing in the hollows of the woods and stealing into caves, a fearsome cacophony.

Vark turned back to his friends, "Mount up" he called, "We have a lot of ground to cover." He then strode to the larger black wolf, grasped a handful of mane, and swung himself up to the creatures back, Taelan rather nervously repeated the procedure with the smaller and sleeker grey, whilst Nine's natural agility helped him astride his mount.

Out of the three, only Vark had any proper experience riding wargs, this being part of his training for the Outriders, Nine had, of course, travelled using horses before, as part of his profession, however he did not fancy himself an equestrian, or for that matter, actually liked horses, Taelan had absolutely no idea what he was doing, and clung onto the animals back, entwining his fingers in its fur so that he wouldn't fall off mid-run.

An interesting aspect of riding a large wolf-like creature, is that they did not behave like horses, whilst horses would skirt round bushes or other obstacles, and not try and run down steep slopes for fear of breaking a leg, wargs were much more robust animals, with coarse coats of fur covering their bodies, allowing them to run straight through even large thickets of thorns, also being built so that their bodies were lower to the ground, this allowed them to move more quickly over broken or rough ground, but more slowly across open plains. A Warg's eyes had heavy brows above them, giving more protection to these delicate organs during the chase for prey, furthermore, the animals heads were arranged differently to the usual methods of transportation across Middle Earth, both elves and men used horses for cavalry and transport, the dwarves not riding because of their short stature. Therefore, because the Warg was a predator its eyes used binocular vision to locate and catch prey, rather than having eyes on the sides of its head, to watch out for predators, this made them much better than horses as beasts of war, with large fangs, claws and a heavier and stronger body the Warg was an excellent killing machine.

Vark reflected on these various facts as he fell into the rhythm of the ride, using his thighs to hold the animals sides he also held the mane of it, keeping his body low and stretched out, so as not to disrupt the movement of his warg.

Wait, his warg?

_Yes, your warg._

Vark heard the voice in his head, or, not _heard_ more felt it, felt the communication from the animal.

_Do you have a name? _he asked it, curious about this new bond they seemed to share.

_I've never needed one, I can only think properly now because you came here, I am an animal after all, I have looked into your mind, who are the Frost Wolves? _Said the same odd voice, the only way Vark could describe it was 'earthy'. A fairly pathetic description he admitted.

Vark was quite surprised at this, _How do you know about them? _He countered; perhaps the animal could read his mind.

_No, I can remember your experiences though, why do you have someone who tried to kill you following you around, and is the small one insane? _Said 'his' warg.

Vark laughed at this, _No, well actually, yes, but he hides it well, don't worry about him he's fine, and Nine's following us because he has nothing better to do._

_I see, and what are you?_ Thought the warg.

Vark was puzzled at this, _What am I? I am Vark, Orc, Shaman, Warsong, Horde._ Accompanying these thoughts, Vark send out 'pictures' and associated memories for the Warg to review.

_So you are a wizard._ The warg thought, noting one memory of Vark throwing fire at a practice dummy.

Vark shook his head, _No, the wizards you're thinking of command, I ask, there's a difference. Find a place called Razor Hill and look there, you'll understand. Also, I've thought of a name for you. How does Blackbite sound?_

The newly christened Blackbite grinned, or the closed approximation he could make, the rest of the ride was made in silence, Blackbite occasionally pulling a memory forward to ask a question or clarify his understanding, except for this, the miles rolled by, the wargs running steadily, running over hill and dale, across streams and fields, at one point they passed a farmer on a cart, heading parallel to the mountains, Blackbite made for him and devoured him, Taelan's warg, a female, 'Silverflood' and Nine's mount 'Charlie' (a name which Taelan seemed to find endlessly amusing) ate the horse, then Taelan set fire to the cart and they rode off, after several hours traveling at the same speed, the sun reached its zenith and started to set, the light reflected of the spiked leaves of great holly trees dotted about the landscape.

The Wargs slowed as they navigated a narrow ravine between two cliffs, boulders were strewn at the bottom and a bubbling brook ran through it, Vark ducked low to Blackbite's mane, the warg leapt a gap over the river, sliding slightly on the slippery stones, he called out to Taelan.

"What place is this?"

Silverflood bounded the gap as well, Taelan hanging on in the same way Vark did, "The land of Hollin, we are maybe a third of the way to Isengard, the elves dwelt here in days gone by."

"They _what?_" yelled Nine, also bounding across, he sat up and looked strangely at Taelan.

"Dwelt, as in lived." Repeated Taelan.

"Well why didn't you say so?" asked Nine exasperatedly, he took a bite out of an apple he had grabbed of a tree, throwing another to Vark the trio set off again, going in single file up a path through the hills.

"If we do not speak as the folk of this land, we will arouse suspicion as to our origins and our motives." Spake Taelan haughtily.

"Verily, our erstwhile comrade speaks the truth!" spake Vark, smiling.

Taelan burst out laughing, and even the stoic Nine felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. "Do you even know what that means?" the elf asked.

"I heard it in a play once." Replied Vark defensively.

"Well good effort, but that's not how I meant, speak normally, don't change your vocabulary, but rearrange some of the words, and speak more…formally." Said Taelan.

"Well that's good to know" replied Nine.

OOoooOoOoOoOoooOO

Night had fallen, the three travelled on, always southwards, mountains capped with snow shone on their left, the long loping strides of the wargs carrying them swiftly across the landscape. After a time, the holly tree and the land of Hollin passed behind them. They came to a large river, dismounting they swam across, then built a fire for the night, the wargs were hungry after their long run, the riders also wanted food, Blackbite ran off into the woods, returning with a roe deer, Nine butchered it and shared it out among the group, they ate and fell asleep, birds cawing in the woods and wind whistling in the trees.

The next morning dawned even brighter than the day before, the air was chill again and already the wind had turned back toward the east, bringing cool air down from the mountains, snow swirled in gusts and built up in crevices in the land, Vark awoke first, the fire was out and cold, he roused his companions and they set off, shrugging off sleep as they rode, they warmed somewhat as they travelled, the strong legs of the wargs loping along, wolves can run far if not fast, and in this way take down prey, they used this adaptation to aid in their endurance. The riders would eat as they rode, gnawing on strips of deer meet from the night before, as a warg became hungry it would surge forward, hunting and eating, then run back to its fellows, keeping the pace steady.

Following the foothills of the mountains for another day the group came to a lake, a small island at one end, and dirt track running parallel.

"Civilisation?" asked Nine, this being the first signs they had come across.

"Câl Methedras" replied Taelan, "We have travelled into Dunland."

"What folk dwell here?" asked Vark, who by this time had got into the swing of things.

"The Dunlendings, Hill People, they should not be a threat unless there are many of them." Replied Taelan happily, he was pleased Vark had accepted his tutelage so readily.

Nine shook his head at this, He was _not_ speaking stupidly just so he could fit in, he would just be quiet so no-one had to listen/be suspicious of him. "Can we get new stuff there?" he asked, the group's clothing in particular was getting very bedraggled from the many thorn bushes the wargs seemed to delight in running _straight through_.

Taelan looked thoughtfully at the valley spread out before them, they had crested a ridge across from the lake, and were traveling near the edge of the woods as to not draw attention to themselves, at a moment's notice they could fade away into the leaves. "Probably" he said, "But they don't have much, they're 'Wild Men' you know."

Nine grunted and looked out across the horizon, "Why can't we see Isengard yet? You said it was close."

Taelan sighed, as he was the only one with knowledge of geography of Middle Earth he was constantly pestered with variations of 'Are we there yet?' and similar, it was most vexing, or so he thought to himself. "Orthanc is surrounded by a great ring-wall of stone, like towering cliffs, and stands out from the shelter of the mountain-side, the fortress sits in a sheltered valley in the arms of the Misty Mountains, the only access being by a long tunnel bored though the rock of the walls and guarded by gates and watchmen. As you enter there is a great plain, a circle, somewhat hollowed like a vast shallow bowl: a mile from rim to rim."

"So where do we go now?" asked Vark, "We continue through Dunland you say, but can we cut across the mountains?"

Taelan shook his head, "No, we must round the south most steppes of the Misty Mountains, The Gate of Isengard is set in the southern edge of the wall, so we have to pass through the Gap of Rohan and along the banks of the Isen to get there. That will be the most dangerous part of our journey so far, we may encounter the Rohirrim, but as long as we stay on the Western bank of the Isen they should not bother us, even if they spot us."

Vark smiled, "_Should_ being the operative word there. We will travel for a few more hours, then rest, we should reach Isengard in another two days. By my reckoning, we should arrive at Dol Baran tonight, then be at the Fords of Isen by tomorrow, and Isengard the day after, is that agreeable? No doubt we could go faster. "

Taelan considered this, "I think we should get to Isengard as fast as possible, we must remember that we are only three, even with our faithful friends." He said, patting SIlverflood's head, "There may still be dangers we are of as yet unaware of."

Nine nodded, apprehensive. They rode in silence after that, Taelan and Silverflood going ahead to scout, Vark and Nine keeping each other company. Vark could smell smoke on the air, he looked over the land and saw several rude huts with small chimneys, no doubt the 'Dunlendings' that inhabited this place, interrupting his musings, Taelan crashed through the bushes in front of the two, panting and skidding to a stop in front of them.

"Humans, twenty or so, about a mile distant, coming this way, looks like a raiding party, they're armed, but not with much, pitchforks and axes for the most, a few bows." He said, calming down.

Vark looked at Nine, then at Taelan.

"Shall we have some fun?"

OoOOoooOOoO

Vark stood in the middle of a path that he knew the group would come along, he was quite looking forward to a proper fight, the only exercise he had been getting for the past week was riding mainly, apart from the short assassination attempt by Nine, he stood, legs apart, arms folded across his chest, a brown cloak draped about his huge shoulders, its hood lowered over his eyes. Nine observing that he 'wouldn't want to meet you down a dark alley at night'. Taelan had heartily agreed with him. Blackbite and the others were on the sides of the path, hidden in some bushes, and Nine was hanging by his feet from a branch above the path. Taelan had daubed a sigil on the floor in some blood, and then disappeared off into the woods, giggling to himself.

Vark was having serious doubts about his friend's sanity, he had heard that human children went through phases of strange behaviour, however, not being a xenobiologist (or knowing what that meant) he had no idea if it was normal for elves. Taelan had mumbled something about magic addiction to him when he had mentioned it in conversation, and having heard stories of elves going mad and trying to suck the life out of people to 'feed' Vark was happy for the alternative.

He could not see the orange light or torches through the trees, they were in a fairly sparsely wooded area of the forest, the trees being larger, meaning that smaller, younger trees did not get enough light to grow. The path the men were coming along was a narrow dirt track, probably more of a game trail than a road.

Vark then looked toward the men, the 'Dunlendings' as Taelan had said, he doubted they would make much of a challenge, they marched, or rather walked briskly in a ragged formation along the path, about one in three held a burning torch dipped in pitch, which was apparently a popular fuel around this area. Each was equipped with a club, with some kind of sharp material, either stone or metal, bonded to it, several had bows, and the leader had a sword, a rusty iron thing, short and broad in the blade, with rust running from the guard. They were dressed in a variety of animal skins and various pelts roughly sewn together and draped across them. Each man had a great beard, all had black hair, and one was missing an eye.

All in all, Vark felt slightly sorry for them.

"Get ready!" whispered Nine from his branch.

Vark nodded, widening his stance slightly for a more steady position. The men walked along the road, getting closer. One of them saw him, and called out, alerting his fellows. Weapons were held, torches raised, voices raised in anger.

"Stor Ka'sar?"Called the leader, striding forward from the group.

_Evidently this is their attempt at language _thought Vark dryly, he called out the phrase he had got from Taelan, he had begun learning the language of the place, the 'Common Tongue' as Taelan had said, the gist of the sentence mainly being that –

"You cannot pass."

One of the group yelled at him in their own language, presumably an insult, the leader silenced him with a look, the group moved forward more, almost directly under Nine, hanging from above them, grinning widely and holding something close to his chest. The leader again shouted to Vark, who ignored him, standing, arms folded in the middle of the path.

One of the fellows approached him, obviously apprehensive of this immense apparition, one he got within striking range, Vark grabbed him by the throat. Then several things happened at once, the man scratched at Vark's arm, slowly suffocating, Vark squeezed, buckling his windpipe, then Vark hurled him toward his friends, they drew their various weapons and started running toward Vark. Smoke rose from the floor and the dry mulch covering the ground burst into flame, Nine dropped from his tree, holding a rope connected to a noose, which tightened about the leaders neck and drew him up into the trees, huge shapes swirled in the smoke, then roared into life as Blackbite and the other wargs, who ripped into the group, tearing and smashing, Vark leapt forward, each punch he threw shattering bones and dislocating limbs.

Lightening flew from some bushes, which burned away to reveal a lithe figure, eyes glowing red, hair swirling behind him, Taelan walked forward, casually cursing a pair running away, they fell to the ground, screaming and Silverflood jumped on them, jaws fastening on an arm.

Nine ducked under a club, sliding a dagger between the ribs of his assailant, he heard a scream, then a wet ripping sound, turning round, he saw Blackbite and Charlie fighting over the carcass of one of the Hill Men, Blackbite had the torso, Charlie had the legs, the man had been ripped in half. Looking back to the battlefield, he saw Vark stalking toward the remaining raiders, there were three left, standing together, Vark slowly walked along, lightly stepping over corpses, casually kicking a severed head away from him, it hit a tree and burst open, coating the immediate area in gore. At this, one man started to run, Nine began drawing one of his long knives, ready to throw, but he needn't to have worried, green fire engulfed the man, leaving a blackened cadaver to slump to the ground.

Vark grabbed the men, taking advantage of the distraction of their comrade's death. He held them, one in each hand, tightening his grip, crushing their throats, he squeezed, his prisoners eyes bulged their tongues protruding from their mouths. Then, abruptly Vark dropped them.

The men struggled feebly on the ground, coughing and gasping, one of them tried to crawl away, but was stopped by a growl and a pressure on his leg, Silverflood's jaws closed on his ankle, dragging him bodily back to Vark's feet.

Vark snapped his fingers, drawing their attention. They looked up at him, eyes wide and fearful. He raised his arm and pointed into the distance. The survivors needed no encouragement, fleeing into the woods, tripping and stumbling over the bodies and viscera strewn across the glade. Vark let them reach a distance of a hundred yards, then looked toward Blackbite.

_How many does it take to deliver a message?_

_One_.

Silvermoon threw back her head, howling, and bounded away, following closly on Blackbite's tail, Charlie bounded through the trees, running to the right of the two, faster than them, he ran for the men, herding them towards his pack-mates.

Vark turned away, flanked by his friends, and walked into the woods, behind him, screams echoed through the trees, twilight set on the world, a man died, torn into pieces, the other, running for his life, trying to escape the demons that had obliterated his party.


	6. Strange Tidings

_Authors thoughts: So how do I solve this shaman thing? Hmmmm…well I could. No wait, that wouldn't work, I'll think about it some more, now what would be funny is if I…no that would be even weirder. NO, I'm soooo doing it *grins*_

**Liberation**

**Chapter 6**

Vark, Taelan and Nine sat around the campfire; they had a roasting deer on a spit in the middle. Nine leant forward and sliced of a chunk of it, tossing it from hand to hand lest he burn himself he eventually managed to get some into his mouth, he chewed noisily and swallowed, then guzzled down a skin of water they had stolen from the men they killed.

"Burn yourself?" Asked an amused Taelan.

Nine nodded mutely, his cheeks bulged out holding some water to cool his mouth. Vark was most amused at this, "You look like one of those small rodents." He said, grinning, Nine raised an eyebrow at this, sending Taelan into gales of laughter. Vark swiped Nine's knife and cut himself a slice of meat, the fat bubbling across the surface, Vark licked his lips and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully, apparently in absolute comfort.

"See," said Taelan indicating his large green friend, "That's how an Orc eats!"

The smell of cooking meat had attracted the wargs, Silvermoon sidled up behind Taelan, creeping along, Nine tried not to smile, knowing the water in his mouth would come flooding out if he started laughing. Taelan reached toward the meat, spearing some on the 'communal cutlery' he had borrowed. He had a rather sizeable piece for one so small, he closed his eyes in anticipation of the succulent meat and…stabbed himself in the lip.

Dropping the knife he clutched his face, running his tongue over the wound, wondering what had happened. Nine snorted, water coming out his nose, then collapsed to the side wheezing and coughing, apparently having inhaled a sizeable portion of his coolant. Vark thumped him on the back, also laughing. Taelan heard the rather sinister cackling noise he associated with warg 'laughter' and saw a silvery blur fly away into the trees. He picked up a rock and lobbed it into the trees, turning back to the fire rubbing his mouth.

They sat quietly after that with only the occasional 'could you pass me the...' and the odd string of swear words accompanied by 'I thought you said you got all the bones out?!' and other such amusements. They passed the night like this, the moon rising into the sky, Taelan lay back, using his cloak as a pillow, looking up at the stars. He had begun to classify them with shapes and descriptions, he saw 'Vark Smash!' up there, a collection of lights he had pointed out to his big green friend once, who refused to see it. Even though it was _clearly_ Vark being one annoyed Orc.

Taelan felt very peaceful there, just lying down, he thought he might fall asleep soon…If not for an incredibly strange noise coming from a few feet away. Vark and Nine had noticed it as well, a strange roaring, that waxed and waned like the tide on a beach. Now loud, deafening even, now ebbing away, perhaps not roaring, rocks grating against one another.

Taelan looked to his companions, who stated back at him, questioning looks on their faces. The leaves begun to swirl around them, embers from the fire being kicked up, a small tornado forming several feet away, under a large oak tree at the edge of their camp. A blue light appeared above the ground, higher than a head; it flashed strongly then faded along with the 'roaring' sound.

The friends were standing by now, Nine held a knife in each hand, Taelan readied himself for combat, and Vark stood resolute in the face of this new unknown.

The blue light was still flashing, on and off, again and again, but, with each flash and each accompanying roar, something was appearing. Blue wood filled the void under the light, corners and panels 'warping' into existence from thin air. The space was filled by, of all strange and random things, a tall blue box, with a little light on top.

"Well that was unexpected." Said a surprised Taelan, trying to peer round the box without moving his feet.

"Indeed." Replied Nine slowly.

The door on the front of the box open, the trio prepared themselves for…a thin man wearing a brown jacket with patched elbows and a bow-tie to walk out. He had floppy hair. The man peeked round the door awkwardly.

"Ah!" said the man, striding purposefully out. "Just the three I was looking for!" he said in a jovial tone.

"What?" replied Nine weakly, staring at the man.

The man looked behind him, then did a sort of twirl on the spot, scanning the surroundings in a circle, "Oh sorry!" he said, rather breathlessly. "I'm the Doctor."

"What?" said Nine again.

The Doctor smiled at this, "Well there appears to have been a mistake a few days ago, and you all got..well it doesn't matter now, I've come to fix the time stream…not stream, more a big ball of timey wimey sort of stuff." Said he.

"What?" replied Nine, articulately.

The Doctor pulled a thin tube from his coat, it had a luminescent jewel on the end, he aimed it at the trio, it flashed a few times before they could dive for cover, and then the Doctor replaced it back into the folds of his coat. Then he looked back at the others. "Okay, everything should be fixed now, I'll be going, I have to go hide in a cake, sorry, bye!" he called, walking back into his box.

A familiar roaring filled the air, and the box disappeared. Leaves swirled and landed and the glade was returned to peace.

Taelan took a few faltering steps forward, groping in the air for any trace of the 'Doctor'. When he found none, he turned back toward his companions. Nine looked back at him, Vark's eyes seemed to have glazed over. Nine looked at him again.

"What?" he said, looking at the space where the man had disappeared.

OoOoooOOOoooOoO

_As you may have noticed, that chapter was a joke, I was thinking about the various issues I had to resolve around plot, and after considering the excellent and incredibly helpful review I got from Honest Lunar Raven (Thanks for that!), I had this idea, obviously this isn't meant to actually be part of the story (although it would be incredibly convenient!) it was just a thing I thought up this afternoon, rest assured, the REAL chapter 6 will have our rather dubiously titled 'heroes' finally arriving at Isengard, and confronting Saruman, I've got a few ideas about plot on the way there, but they WILL get to Isengard nest chapter. Anyway, tell me what you thought of this sort of spoof version, I'll get back to writing the proper version now, it should be up soon _


	7. Isengard

_Good Morning/Afternoon Everyone!_

_I've just started Sixth Form (nor really sure what that equates to in the US education system, I was 16 about a month ago so perhaps 11__th__ Grade or something?), so that's one of the reasons I didn't update sooner. I know it isn't really an excuse, but it's the best I've got, this chapter is about double the size of the average of what I normally write (i.e. 5000 words instead of 2,500 words), so that might make up for it._

_I've also been deliberating about the plot of the story. As I said in previous 'chapter' (which henceforth is Chapter 6 to avoid confusion with the real Chapter 6 which Fanfiction will probably call Chapter 7..ok that's more confusing than I thought it would be and I'm rambling now…) the reviews have been very helpful to me, so again thank you for them. I will be addressing the various questions asked, but not all of them in this chapter, I've learnt from the "we're shamans" incident not to go to fast with a story. I decided not to change the things in previous chapters, I may eventually, but they were pretty useful for the plot, and hopefully the explanations I'll give should be good enough for everyone._

_On the morality of the characters, they're neither 'dark' nor 'light' in the recognised definitions of the words, more grey than anything else. But that will also be explored in future._

_On the subject of the 'knowledge transfer' and Honest Lunar Raven's point about him not being a priest, I was modelling Taelan's abilities and powers off Nex-thanarak from the Demon Hunter series (which I recommend greatly), both are fairly self-taught and employ a variety of spells from different classes. Furthermore, there isn't really that much difference between many spells, like a Blast Wave and a Rain of Fire do about the same thing, or like a Fear and a Physic Scream also do the same. There's an excellent monologue from Lord of the Clans about spell effects that Drek'Thar gives, that might explain some questions about some of the magic in the story. I'll try and find it to post in the next chapter._

_I'm thinking about some of the characters who are going to pop up later on, and I was wondering if anyone wanted to suggest some OCs? Or self inserts, just give me a PM or a review with some qualities/traits of the character and some details about them, and I'll try and fit them in, although keep in mind, suggestions have to be reasonable, so I'm not having the long lost brother of the Witch-King of Agmar showing up on David the Pink Nazgul._

_Have fun reading; reviews help me make the story better! _

_Oh and thanks again to Honest Lunar Raven for your second review, as well as the first, which was quite useful for a few things I hadn't thought of. I may have said that last chapter, but it was a great review, so I thought I would again._

**Liberation**

**Chapter 6…wait no…7**

**By FractiousDay**

Night reigned, coating the hills in silver, waves of grass rippling in the moonlight, Vark looked unerringly forward, he had been silent since the battle. Taelan seemed happy enough, carefree even, his previously blonde hair had turned brown with drying blood and with his softly glowing green eyes he had quite a sinister appearance. He walked lightly over the ground, barely leaving imprints of his shoes, ears twitching every so often, detecting sounds outside normal hearing. Nine walked a little off to the side, warily looking from left to right, and along the tops of hills, searching for any sign of discovery. He was skittish, his actions weighing heavily on his mind.

They walked for hours, the wargs absent, still hunting. Taelan skipped over a large boulder, standing on the top he looked over a sea of purple flowers, the white capped mountains across the horizon glinting in the moonlight. They were coming to the end of the Misty Mountains, Taelan could see great plains opening out toward the east, around the spur of the mountains, flat grasslands and rolling hills. The moon made everything shimmer silver; it reminded Taelan of Quel'Thalas before the Scourge came.

ooOOoo

Dawn broke in the East, the sun at their backs they trudged through fields of lavender, strewn with boulders broken from the mountains, which had, through centuries of movement, come to rest there. As the light reached them, and before the shadows were as tall as they stood, they turned, heading north now, retracing their way in the direction they had come. The Wargs returned giving no explanation of their absence, the travellers asking none, they mounted and rode with greater speed, still having no conversation along the road.

That it was a road had been somewhat of a shock for them. They came to it as the sun crested the mountains, the shade suddenly vanishing and light glistening on the dew of the grass. To the west, the river Isen ran gently southwards, issuing from their destination.

Isengard.

The ringed tower was on all their minds. Taelan wanted to meet another wizard in battle, he longed for the feel of a duel, the power surging through him, and satisfaction of a gently smoking corpse when it was over. He always felt invigorated after a magical battle; the little skirmish against the Dunlendings was nothing in comparison with some of the Alliance Mages he had faced before. That wasn't battle, it was sport, no, not even that, it was pest control. Taelan knew this was only the beginning.

oOoOo

Nine rode quietly as well. He didn't know how to feel, all his training pointed to carrying out actions then not becoming personally related to them, getting the job done and moving on. The fight had been fun he admitted, and those men had no chance against them, but he couldn't help feel that a group of armed men, probably up to no good purpose, were still relatively innocent. At least they had not deserved to be set upon by three skilled and dangerous strangers and their equally dangerous mounts. He had killed for fun before, and killed for money, for duty and for revenge. He was a murderer, but many of his killings didn't bother him.

But these did.

He felt he should have some higher purpose than just killing. That was his old profession, now he had the opportunity to make a new path, not like when he had donned a new life for an assignment, but a new persona he could invent for himself. He wanted stability, to not have people trying to kill him all the time. He wanted a home.

But, as had been said before, "If you wish for peace, prepare for war."

oOOooOOo

Vark could feel a tenseness in the air, it was little past midday, and the group had made their way up the bank of the River Isen, and through hills and wooded areas, not proper forests, but green boughs and branches drooped down from above, causing him to brush them aside every now and again. Taelan had been observing the sun for a while, and looking thoughtful, eventually he spoke:

"By my reckoning, we will arrive at twilight." He said, looking toward the mountains again, the sun was shrouded in clouds, a cloudy sky showed above the land, but dark, rolling clouds billowed from the north, bringing cold air down from the mountains and from Isengard, under the mountainside in the west of the valley, miles from its mouth. They rode at the side of a road, on short, springing turf that the warg's preferred to the hard stone that was laid along as the road.

They rode more swiftly, Vark spurring Blackbite onwards, and shortly they came to the arms of Nan Curunír, the name given to the southern valley of the Misty Mountains. The Wizard's Vale was before them, in previous years it had been green and verdant, trees and grasses of all sorts growing there and within the ring of Isengard, all fed from the rushing Isen. But now, now the Vale was dead, the Isen flowed weakly now, sluggishly, Saruman had dammed and diverted the main course of the river, needing it to power his machinery. Great pits and chasms were opened to create space for Saruman's armies, and the river no longer washed away the filth coming from the many smithies and workshops that had been put to work on Saruman's orders.

Following on the heels of the 'Reordering of Isengard' came the death of the forests, around Isengard the trees became dry, but wilted no further, because they were cut down, around Orthanc the desolation spread, blackened stumps and dry grasses, the orcs under Saruman's command had now taken their lumber-gathering to the forest of Fangorn, cutting great swathes of the forest to fuel the war machine of Orthanc.

Vark almost wept at the destruction, he felt it keenly in his chest, like a dull ache. He felt it sometimes back in the 'Gulch. Though he did not specifically practice Nature magic, and as an Orc could not even become a Druid, he still felt the Earth crying out. One aspect of a shaman's training was the acceptance of this pain, that people had to have fire and shelter to survive, this was why many shamans turned to the aspects of fire and wind, becoming elementalists, or using nature's powers to enhance their strength, rather than using water and earth to heal others. This saddened Vark, although his people enjoyed battle, the demon blood had left its mark on them, never again would the orcs be a purely shamanic society, living in harmony with nature. Now they were changed, perhaps for the better, the Horde was too new to tell.

But the Horde was gone! They were in a new world now, a new Earth, 'Middle Earth' presumably there was also a High and Low Earth, Vark mused, but that was irrelevant, they would go to Isengard, kill Saruman, then see where they stood, even after Taelan 'interrogated' the ranger, they still knew next to nothing. The wizard in Orthanc was likely to have a great library or other store of knowledge that they could gather information from.

Time passed, and the sun went into the west, but out of the vale, rose a dark spire of smoke and vapour. As it mounted it caught the rays of the sinking sun, and spread in shimmering billows, black and silver over the starry sky.

"What do you think of that Taelan?" asked Nine, "You could say that all the valley was burning."

Taelan looked at the column of vapour, "There would always be a fume above the valley in these days, this" he said, nodding ahead "would be the fumes of the factories, no doubt Saruman has diverted the river, and that is why it runs so dry."

Nine nodded, agreeing with the elf, "True, but we shall find out soon." He said.

They rode for another hour, and suddenly, along a bend in the road, a tall pillar rose up before them, it was black, hewn into a square shape, atop it was a large white hand, it index finger pointing north, toward Isengard. Not far now they knew the gates of Isengard must stand, but they were wary, they must pass though on the first go, as there was no other entrance into the Ring. Beneath the mountains arm within the Wizards Vale stood that ancient tower, carved in obsidian, in times long ago, its art of making lost in the annals of time. The entire valley was almost artificial the architects of old wanting stone that was old and strong, the roots of a mountain for their fortress. Mighty works the men of Westerness had wrought of old and Saruman had dwelt there long, and had not been idle.

But all of what the White Wizard had made, was but a copy, a vain counterfeit of that great fortress, armoury, prison and palace that was Barad-dûr, in all Saruman's works, he was subtly guided by suggestion and counsel, to make a second Dark Tower, in his eyes to rival and surpass the Fortress of Mordor, but in Sauron's eye, a futile attempt of flattery. Within Isengard's great Ring, along avenues were many pillars, some of marble and granite, others of copper and some of gold and silver, as they radiated from the tower they decreased in value, thus, next to Orthanc, was shining silver and gold, and at the edges of the ring simple, dull, stone.

The three friends rode along, by now the wargs were tiring, but their destination was finally in sight, after several days of travel they were all sore and weary, but now they could see a shape rising from the vapour, an ornate tower, narrowing to the top where four spikes of stone crowned it, defying the sky, this allowed a man, if he so desired, to stand five hundred feet above the plain to look out and inspect the land around him.

There were many balconies that they could see along the outer walls, and banners flew from the balustrades, showing a white hand on a black background, the white hand of Saruman. An Orc a man, an elf and three large wolves, one black, one grey and one brown rode to the gates of Isengard. Steel doors driven by strong poles into the rock of the Ring greeted them, a group of sentries stood outside.

ooOOoo

The sentries looked on the travellers in amazement, instead of the bedraggled, tired group, they saw huge beasts, foaming slightly at the mouth, heads soaked in drying blood, and enormous black wolf was taking the centre, and thrust his head toward the guards, its teeth glistening in the dying light. The riders were equally imposing, atop the massive wolf sat a massive orc, nearly troll sized in their eyes, and as they stood he towered over them, a rugged face, strong jawed with tusks and a low forehead, set in a snarl.

"We bear messages from Mordor! Let us pass!" cried the figure, the guards were horrified at the creature's naming of the Black Land, they had been forbidden to do so by Saruman. They had seen the riders approaching, and had sent word back along the path, but the runner had not returned, and they knew not what to do. Strangers were to be pursed and killed on sight, to stop potential spies, but _these_ strangers claimed to be from, (the guard shuddered at the name) _Mordor_. As the sentries stood dumbstruck, one of the flanking riders came forward, he was cloaked and hooded in grey, the hood covered his upper face, his eyes were just about visible, the guards imagined that they glowed green in the falling darkness, but they dismissed this as fancy, the hooded stranger looked at them from his warg, high cheekbones and a pointed nose, a cruel twist to his mouth. He looked at the Head Guard.

"Time presses." He sneered, "Bring us within, or send for another of greater wit than your own."

The Head Guard was rather taken aback by this; he looked into the stranger's eyes, his men looking toward him for leadership. A sudden headache came on to the Guard, a pain beginning behind his eyes, he brought his hand to his face, rubbing his temples as he thought of how he should deal with the situation.

The grey one came forward further, the head of his mount almost touching the Guard's "You. Will. Take. Us. To. Saruman!" intoned the grey one, his eyes actually _flashing_ as he looked down. The Guard swiftly turned on his heel, walking back toward the gate, his men stood, unsure of what to do. They eventually followed their leader, and formed into a square around the 'messengers', and escorted them inside. The last rider, who had remained silent, raised an eyebrow at the grey rider, who returned his look with a smug grin.

The journey though the rock wall was dark and cold, the only noises the footfalls of the guards and the soft padding of the wolves. The group emerged on the other side, the guards widening their formation to occupy the middle of the road toward Orthanc, Vark's mount taking the middle, his friends going behind and to the sides of him.

There were large pylons and wooden structures built over the pits that opened in the plain around Orthanc, cranes and pullys dropped down into the depths, steam and smoke curling around the cables, then dissipating into the sky. Both men and other man-shaped things worked there, the three assumed them to be Saruman's orcs that he had bred in Orthanc, but they could not be certain.

They rode slowly, keeping pace with their guards, the leader still striding along. Soon they came to the steps of the Tower, many steps, and steep ones, they rose to a set of double doors, black and tall, the exterior slightly shiny in the fading sun. The doors opened, seemingly of their own accord; presumably Saruman had been alerted to their presence there and opened the gates from inside.

With the sun glinting of the sharp spires above, the three made their way into the tower, the guards stopping outside. They stood in a large room, probably occupying the whole of the lowest level of the tower, sets of stairs climbed up each corner of the room, one led down, seemingly to the caves and pits under Orthanc, Vark looked around him, looking back at his companions, he set his jaw and walked toward one of the stairs, they climbed, feet flapping on the steps, echoing about the tower. They climbed several floors, the second a library, Taelan made sure to remember where it was for later reference, Vark led them, walking steadily up the stairs, they passed another level which appeared to be the living chambers of Saruman, there was a short hallway and several doors. They ignored the doors and kept going up the stairs, passing a workshop, or office of some sort, papers and candles scattered around the room, a mortar and pestle standing on a table, a fine, blackish powder coating the edges and filling a small bowl nearby. There were several open windows and cool air gently breezed through the room. They agreed to investigate once their current mission was over.

The topmost floor was composed of two rooms, the first, an audience chamber, with a short dais, rising a foot above the floor, on it was a dark, high-backed chair, almost a throne, the Númenoreans who had built the tower being afraid that a throne in a semi-military setting might have been somewhat 'dangerous' if word ever got out, so they settled for a chair. There was a staircase going directly to the 'definitely-not-throne-room', and led out to it, a small space available for supplication when the need and visitors arose. This room now held a rather large Orc, a hooded elf, and a bearded man, the man looked around him, taking in the décor, which he thought was rather austere. The elf looked up; noting the incredibly high ceiling, presumably there was a staircase leading above to the pinnacle of the tower. The Orc was looking at the throne, a glint in his eyes.

Around the main room were smaller rooms, the door on one open, with what looked like a small, private study or library inside, the other doors were closed, and as the group stood, one opened. A man walked out, he wore a white robe, or at least it seemed to be white, it shimmered in the light as he walked or made any movement, a ring sparkled on his finger, and he carried a tall, black staff, wrought in the likeness of the tower of Orthanc itself, four blades pointing from the top, in casing a white, milky jewel of some sort. He had a long face and a high forehead, and deep darkling eyes. His hair and beard were white and both worn long, both almost reaching to his waist, but strands of black still showed around his lips and ears.

This was Saruman, Ring-Forger, Saruman of Many Colours, 'Skilled Man', the White Wizard and the Keeper of the Tower. The Wizard walked toward them, they parted unconsciously before such a masterful and obviously wise being, he ascended the steps to his throne effortlessly, and sat, holding his staff loosely in his left hand, he right gripping the arm of the seat.

His great grace and obvious intelligence astounded the three, or more accurately, two of them, Taelan looked rather puzzled, his face screwed up in concentration, his eyes narrowed. Saruman seemed to note this, and waited for the three, making sure they were all paying attention before he began to speak.

"Now my friends," he said in a melodious tone, "What brings such august visitors, braving the dangers of the land, to my seat?"

After a short silence, in which Vark attempted to clear his head of the fog that had arisen, making his thoughts slow and sluggish, making him trust the man in front on him. Finally he spoke, thinking on his feet for an explanation, it was obvious now that they would not catch the Wizard by surprise. "We bear messages from Mordor, the Lord Sauron commands that I take over military command of this outpost. You will have overall strategic licence, whereas I will make tactical decisions and serve as Commander in the field." Vark smiled, reasonably pleased with his explanation.

Saruman looked searchingly at him, then nodded, "The Lord Sauron has spoken already to me of this, and I welcome one so skilled in the arts of battle, I will summon my lieutenant, so that you may begin reviewing your troops Nar-Zhâda." Saruman said, using a particular Orcish phrase that Vark recognised, but could not accurately place. He puzzled over it for several minutes whilst Saruman swept out of the room, his staff thudding softly as it struck the ground. Nine waited till he was sure Saruman was gone, and then turned to the others.

"What do we do now?" he hissed angrily.

Taelan shook his head like a dog; he took a breath and looked up. "He was doing _something_ to our minds." He said, "Play along for now, it seems like he believes us, but let's not press him unnecessarily, we will make our move only when we are sure of success, I won't have any chances where he is involved."

Vark nodded, and was about to say more, when they heard the _thud shuffle swish thud_ of Saruman, who pushed open a door, strode forward, and seated himself. They looked on expectantly, and a moment later the door opened again, emitting a large orc, different from what they knew, it had black skin and looked more Manish than the Orcs of Draenor and Azeroth, this specimen was tall, tusked and rugged, like a _real _Orc (or so Vark thought) but he was less stooped, he had squinting eyes and larger pointed ears, he had yellow eyes, almost like a cats, but the pupils were less extreme, his arms were also less lank, and his legs less bowed and longer than a normal Orc's. He wore a segmented chest guard of leather and a skirt and trousers of the same material, blackened with soot and oil till it neither squeaked nor reflected light, a broad-bladed knife hung on one hip, a quiver of long black-feathered arrows on the other. A vicious looking bow was holstered on his back, its end poking out from behind his dreadlocks at one shoulder.

"This is Lurtz." Said Saruman, indicating the Orc before them. "He is one of my new breed." He said proudly.

"New breed?" asked Vark raising an eyebrow.

Saruman laughed at this darkly. "My Uruk-Hai" he said, eyes glinting as he looked at Lurtz.

Vark rose to his full nine feet, towering head, shoulders and chest above the black orc, "Whom do you serve?" he asked in a commanding voice.

Lurtz looked between Vark and Saruman, a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes, he settled on Saruman, who nodded to him, seemingly in acceptance. Lurtz raised his head, jaw jutting forward, and as Vark noticed exposing his neck. "Nar-Zhâda!" he shouted, looking straight at Vark. Intoning each syllable, Vark grinned evilly at this, showing his teeth, and presenting quite a fearsome sight to Lurtz in front of him. Whilst Vark was busy staring down his new subordinate, Taelan noted a surprised look flash across Saruman's face; apparently all was not going to plan.

Vark finished his inspection, finding nothing of fault…apart from the white hand branded into Lurtz's chest piece, that would have to go, the Horde needed a proper symbol, not some Wizard's sigil. Vark glanced back to his friends and Saruman, "I will inspect the fortress." He said commandingly, "And I think, acquire more appropriate gear than my current set." He said smiling. Lurtz nodded and turned smartly, walking away, back to the doors he had entered from. Vark called back over his shoulder: "Taelan, stay here with Saruman, Nine, with me." Nine followed, slinking after the orcs, Taelan looking toward Saruman.

"Looks like you're stuck with me then." He said gleefully, Saruman for his part looked slightly daunted, but nodded, and rose from his seat, swishing away, staff tapping as he went, Taelan smiled and walked after him.

_**End of chapter, Author's note coming up:**_

_Gavoon, I apologise, yes they have 'joined with Saruman' but it's more of an alliance of convenience, given that the only way they knew to get him as to take him by surprise and they didn't manage that, so they had to modify their plans. _

_Also, the introduction of a new character, Lurtz, he will be fairly significant in the story, but I'll have to see how it goes. _

_Next Chapter will be up shortly, like, tomorrow or the next day, which will be the 15/16__th__ of September, just to let you know._

_This Chapter was actually quite a lot shorter than I thought it would be, I was planning on something about 10,000 words long or so (to make up for the fairly long absence…well like three weeks anyway) but it ended up at 4,700, so anyway._

_I am continually surprised at the large amount of views I'm getting, which are great by the way. Therefore, I have started planning both the sequels to this book, and a couple of other stories I have thought about, I want to write something Star Wars related and I was thinking about a Chronicles of Riddick/Mass Effect crossover (I know it sound silly but I've got a proper explanation for it) but that __**definitely**__ doesn't mean I'm abandoning this story._

_Oh, one more thing, the terminology I'm using has good reasons for it, the Lord of the Rings books are written by a completely different person to the various writers for Warcraft, and this makes the speech patterns different, I was wondering what people thought about that? And if it was effective in displaying the different characters properly, so if you'd let me know it would be very helpful. _

_The mention of 'gear' is actually proper terminology for the LotR universe, Aragorn uses it several times to describe the exact same thing WoW players do. Ten points to anyone who can work out what '_Nar-Zhâda' means and where I got it from.

_I have the odd feeling I've left something out in this chapter…If anyone does see any glaring errors could they please tell me so I can sort them out. Thanks in advance._


	8. Equiptment

_Takaiteishu Naruto, you are both right and wrong about the translation, it is indeed some variation of 'Lord of Doom' or something, but that's not the actual title they are calling him (that will be revealed later) . I thought that given Tolkein basically invented the modern fantasy genre, the various languages that are spoken could also be used, in this case, the language of the Urgals of the Inheritance Cycle books. Who are effectively the 'orcs' of that particular piece of fiction, just as the 'orks' (seriously? Just changing a single letter?) of Warhammer are the same._

_And here's the next chapter, thought it should be from a different perspective than the last few, as we've been with them for a while now. Thanks for reading!_

**Liberation**

**Chapter 8**

**By FractiousDay**

Lurtz glanced over his shoulder, his new commander was…strange.

He had asked many questions about Isengard, more than he perhaps should have, questions that may have seemed seditious in nature, of course though, Nar-Zhâda could not be a spy, he was an orc, but a strange one at that. His skin was a very dark green colour, rather than the blacks and browns of most orcs, another thing Lurtz had noticed was his eyes, they were blue. This was shocking, everyone knew an orcs eyes were yellow or red, and that the redness signified the service to the Dark One, this was why the gobliods and half-breeds that lived in the Misty Mountains had yellower eyes, they were further away from the Dark One. Whereas the Uruks, the _real_ orcs of the Mordor had red eyes.

But Lurtz could not place this new orc in either of those categories, not in the groups that Sharkey had bred beneath Orthanc. There were the Uruk-hai, Lurtz was the first of them, the best, the biggest, the smartest. But Nar-Zhâda was even bigger than him, he towered over him, Lurtz reckoned him at least nine feet, if not ten, and he had a veiled sense of danger about him. As they walked down the winding stair of one of the corners of Orthanc Lurtz's neck prickled, his hair stood up on his arms, he would have to watch Nar-Zhâda, he was his new commander, and Nar, in both this fragile peace and the coming war, and he would find out more about him.

And his companions! A bloody handed elf and a filthy tark! The tark maybe, could be explained, there were men still in Orthanc, Lurtz knew some had been bred with orc to make another breed, swart and slant eyed, with bow legs, Sharkey had sent them away to spy out the land up north, so he could understand that a tark and Nar-Zhâda were traveling together, but the elf! No that was another matter, Sharkey didn't seem to notice the elf, maybe it was his hood, covering his ears, his face was in shadow, so Lurtz could understand that, and Sharkey didn't have Lurtz's sense of smell, there was a strange scent about the elf. Like ash and oil, it reminded Lurtz of the pits, especially the workshops for intricate little things, goblins ran those 'shops, making devices and tools, tiny things, but effective, the ones that exploded were the best, but the goblins hadn't seemed to get those right yet, they had lost the last few 'modernisers' as Sharkey called them to explosions. The elf smelled like them though, like wheels and machines, unnatural. Nar-Zhâda seemed comfortable around him though, he was a puny thing really, that elf, probably Nar-Zhâda had trained him enough on their journey, yes that must be it; the elf was a slave.

Well that explained things. This new revelation made Lurtz feel far more easy, not having to worry about strangers, it was clear Nar-Zhâda controlled them, and that would be enough for Lurtz. They came to the bottom of the tower, and Lurtz led them outside, they descended the tall steps, coming out to the wide plain of Isengard, the ringwall in the distance, wooden towers that had been constructed on the lookout for intruders, it was in this was Lurtz had been alerted to the approach of the riders, their method of travel was unusual though, well, not for Nar-Zhâda admittedly, but for the elf and the man, who had heard of wargs consenting to bear men, or elves allowing themselves within a foot of a warg without killing it? _Truly a day of wonders _thought Lurtz sardonically. He turned; the man was casting around him, squinting in the darkness, presumably looking for something. There was a fairly large contingent of guards loitering at the bottom of the stair; Lurtz remembers talking to the Captain there, before his meeting with Sharkey and Nar-Zhâda, the Captain had seemed somewhat distracted, Lurtz would have him whipped for his inattention, Lurtz had identified at least six knives poking out of various pouches on the tark.

"Where are they?" said the man, still squinting into the gloom.

Lurtz looked up at this, who was the tark looking for? However his question was answered by a scuffling noise and the sound of wargs, perhaps they had smelt them coming down the stairs and come along. Lurtz watched several shapes come through the gloom, they were indeed wargs, as he had thought, but one was incredibly large, he thought he might be able to look it in the face. That was clearly Nar-Zhâda's mount. He was a big orc and would need a big warg. Lurtz grinned briefly at the image of Nar-Zhâda sitting on a horse, it would look ridiculous.

He watched as Nar-Zhâda went up to the big black warg, he said something to it, but muttered, so Lurtz didn't hear what they were 'talking' about. The tark walked to a brown warg, somewhat more obviously muscled than the others, and actually patted it. If one of the Isengard lot tried that to the wargs beneath they would be in need of another hand. Well that wasn't actually fair on the wargs now; if they weren't hungry then you'd only loose a few fingers.

Lurtz didn't really know much about wargs, most were too small to allow Uruk-hai to ride on them, so they left them to the tribal orcs from the mountain. The lads from Lugbúrz rode them, but there weren't that many around in Isengard. The tark was stroking the brown wargs snout, the warg nuzzling into his hand. Lurtz wondered if these animals were actually wargs, they seemed strangely friendly. He heard a growl from behind him. Nar-Zhâda looked up from the black warg, turning as he did, he let out a laugh, Lurtz was also turning though, to be confronted by another warg he hadn't noticed, it was a silvery colour that shone in the moonlight, and it had green eyes, oddly glowing Lurtz thought, he backed away slowly, sometimes the wargs got angry for no reason and he didn't want to be near one that looked like it was getting ready to attack.

The tark walked past him to the warg. "I'll tell Taelan to come see you soon, alright?" he told it, the warg growled once more, and lay down at the foot of the stairs, waiting for the elf. Lurtz did not know what to make of this, loyalty from a warg? Some of the older orcs from the Mountains insisted that the wargs were clever, and treated them more kindly, but Lurtz hadn't noticed this apparent 'intelligence', until now that is.

"Where to now then?" asked Nar-Zhâda from behind him.

"Well I want a bed, we've been ridding all day and I'm tired." The tark said.

Lurtz pointed over to the north, the mountain's tops reflected the passing sunlight, and just as he was looking, faded out entirely. "That's the way to the guard's quarters, ask for Cuandur, he's quartermaster of all Isengard, he can settle you for the night, but Sharkey'll want you close I reckon."

The tark nodded and rode of toward the barracks. His warg taking a slow, loping gait away from the two orcs. Lurtz turned back to Nar-Zhâda, "You mentioned gear of war Nar-Zhâda?" he asked his new superior.

The big orc nodded, "I did indeed, but first, it's Vark, I won't have my second in command being so formal." He said.

Lurtz nodded. "Yes Sir." He saluted sardonically. Personally he didn't like the idea of ranks either, orc don't need them, you know who's in charge, or you should, so there isn't a need to call anyone anything but their name, but Saruman had ordered it so he had to do it. Apparently it was part of the new world that Sharkey always went on about. Lurtz hated those talks, they made him hungry.

Vark smiled, "Good, now gear?" he asked.

"This way." Said Lurtz, walking away, Vark pulled himself up onto his wolf, and followed, the soft padding of its feet the only sound nearby, the forges were quiet tonight. They walked through the darkness, skirting around several pits in the ground, noxious fumes pouring out steadily, steam and smoke mixing with them in the air above. They came to a wooden structure, its shape obscured in the gloom; it was one of the cranes that lifted things (as cranes are wont to do) into the pits.

"We call this Pit One" said Lurtz, pointing down. Below them was a large hole in the ground, it had jagged edges and the walls glowed orange from the furnaces, heat wafted upwards, not enough to completely stave off the cool air of the night, but made it more bearable. There was a wooden walkway on the side of the pit, leading down, every few feet an orc or human worked the surface of the rock, mining for minerals and expanding the area of the pit and workspace, there was already lots of small houses at the bottom, roughly hewn from the surface of the rock, mostly square shaped with domed roofs. A hissing sound came from the bottom as red metal was plunged into water, ice and fire combining to make an instrument of death that would carry the will of Orthanc to the world.

The crane began to lower its platform, swaying slightly in the air, the steam of the furnaces rising in currents, bearing it high into the sky, where it swirled and danced, slivers of cloud forming above the tower. The ropes creaked, and Lurtz pointed to another area of the pit.

"That is where the weapons and armour are made, the workshops behind it, further into the rock face." Said Lurtz, he pointed to passage leading away, "That is the way to the Dens, the wargs are stabled there, as well as the majority of the troops, men and orcs." He paused in his speech to look back to his superior, "Segregated of course".

"Of course" said the figure from behind him. The big black warg growing softly.

The platform reached the bottom of the level, Lurtz walked out, his commander riding behind him. Heat boiled off the furnaces, molten metal glowing and bubbling ran into moulds, hammers rang on armour and orc's ran to and fro, carrying various metals to their piles. The two travelled through the pit, Lurtz pointed out different locations of interest.

"There is the main foundry, it is fed from the river, and-"

"How? Surely the river would put out the fire?" asked Nar-Zhâda.

Lurtz frowned at that, Sharkey had not explained the working to him, and he didn't really want to know, but Nar-Zhâda did apparently, and Lurtz tried his best to explain.

"Sharkey's dammed the river, it used to run through the Ring, but he didn't want the pits flooding, so we worked on a dam, well, not us, the Mordor lot, and he's set up great wheels in the water, the men call them 'waterwheels' which is obvious, but you'll have to ask Sharkey himself." Said Lurtz, stepping around a pile of swords, they came to the main foundry, smaller goblins working with tools on armour, making small things, arrowheads and the tips of spears, they used smaller hammers, tapping away until the metal was properly formed, then dipping it in a trough of water nearby, sending up gouts of steam. Larger orcs, and some Uruk-hai used larger hammers on the larger pieces of metal, for the most part the weapons were made in a mould, and metal poured into them, they were then sharpened and set in hilts and guards, but the armour was forged by hand, the larger Uruks shaping breastplates and curving pieces of metal to fit over thighs and forearms.

A large human watched them; he was the foreman of Isengard, and in charge of the creation of arms and armour of the armies of Isengard, he was a short man, with pale skin and a sneering mouth, having a thin frame and lank, brown hair with a small moustache, but he was not retained for his looks, but for his considerable skill in accounting, in fact, he was one of the few in Isengard who could both read and write, most of the men could read at least, to understand books and maps, but most could not write, have little need to do so. None of the Uruk-hai, save Lurtz were taught either, and no-one cared enough about the other orcs to ask them if they knew how to. Many of different races recognised runes, which were simple and only reflected concepts, for instance, many orcs inscribed the runes of war into their armour, to bring luck and prowess in battle, but orcish culture was very symbolic, if one took an individual orc and examined them, one would find at least five different things that could be symbolic to the individual. For instance, a warg rider would often wear a token of some sort, usually wolf skin, to indicate his rank.

However, Saruman had created a new system for the ordering of his army, each soldier was given a number which could be reported to superiors, in this way, if an individual did not fulfil his purpose in battle, or acted stupidly his number was reported after the mission ended, for the purposes of punishment and "re-education" as Saruman liked to call it.

Lurtz called out to the foreman, drawing his attention away from a rather nervous goblin, chiselling away at a piece of wood on a bench, the man turned.

"Lurtz" he grunted in recognition.

Lurtz nodded stiffly, "Sharkey says Nar-Zhâda here's to have some gear." He said.

The foreman appraised Vark carefully, Vark slid off his mount, walked towards the human and stood before him. Towering over the now short man. "I will have to make a whole new set." Said the foreman, "Any particulars?" he asked.

Vark thought for a moment, there were in fact several particulars he wanted. Specifically:

"Black plate, full and strong, but don't bother with a shield, then for a weapon, a hammer, make it so I can wield it in both hands or singularly with a shield, a tall helm, covering my face, also, armour for my warg." He said, gesturing back to Blackbite who was sitting on his haunches, staring at the foreman. "Take my measurements now and find the best steel you have, make sure it's pure. I have a friend who will consult with you about the making itself, you will require his assistance in it."

The foreman looked affronted at the mention of 'assistance', but brushed it off; knowing that to anger this orc would be lethal. He looked at Vark again, and took a long piece of knotted string from his pocket, he started measuring Vark's body with it, first his height, having to go on tip-toes to reach the top of Vark's head, then his arms and chest, and the circumference and length of his legs.

Vark endured all this, waiting for it to be over, rapidly growing bored, Lurzt loitered about, testing the balance of several weapons in a rack near him, after a few practice swings he settled on a sword, one of the Uruk-hai's normal weapons, it was a broad blade, the same width till the point, where it was chopped off at an angle, with a short curve to it, the blade was made primarily for hammering and slashing at armour and mail, using the natural strength of the Uruk-hai in question to batter through armour and slice through flesh.

Vark watched his exercise in silence, noting the skill in the movements and the obvious deadliness of the orc as he slashed at invisible enemies. Vark spoke up, "Which weapon do you favour?" he asked, having remembered a bow that Lurtz had had, but that he had apparently secreted someplace along their journey.

Lurtz grunted, hacking diagonally downwards, hewing through his invisible adversary's neck and torso. "The bow. But I'm just as good with a sword, Sharkey says I'm not to be caught in close combat, I command he says, so I can't use the sword, so I use the bow instead, it's not like those Mordor rat's weapons, much stronger and heavier, so the arrows go straight through armour."

Vark nodded at this, it was right that the commander could not be in close combat, but he also empathised with the Uruk-hai, in his eyes, there were few pleasures equal to battle, and Vark had never enjoyed ranged warfare. A thought came into his head, remembering a discussion he had had with Nine during their journey.

"Do you use poison?" he asked, allowing the foreman to lift his arms.

Lurtz paused in his routine, looking strangely at Vark. "Why?" he asked.

"Kills them quicker." Said Vark dispassionately. "If you have a man rushing at you with an axe, and you've just shot him full of poison, and that slows him down, he's going to die faster isn't he?"

Lurtz looked at him oddly, head cocked to one side, his sword held loosely in his hand.

"Or you can use slowing poisons, and ones that make your enemy see things that aren't there. I'm sure you could borrow some of Nine's until you can make some yourself." Vark said, amused at Lurtz's expression.

"Nine?" asked Lurtz, unfamiliar with the name, then recognition dawned on him. "Your tark servant?" he asked.

Vark laughed loudly at this, "Servant! Oh that's very good, servant indeed, no, call him a…traveling companion, he tried to kill me, we've been friends ever since." He said, smirking.

Lurtz would remember about this later on, he was most curious about the larger orc's words.

The foreman finished measuring and stepped back, kicking a goblin's stool so he fell of it, then telling him to fetch parchment and a quill to write down Vark's measurements. The goblin scurried off, Vark looked down to the foreman, "Done then?" he asked.

The foreman nodded, "I will send a message for you 'friend' and his 'assistance' once I've drawn up plans for the armour, but I need to know more about the weapon now. Anything I make will probably be too small for anyone else to wield, as well as it being so heavy it will crush even the thickest armour with each swing, the same with the armour, the Uruk-hai have the thickest plate at the moment, but yours will be at least three times as thick, and you will still be able to move swiftly in it, if your strength is proportional to your size. If you will follow me, I need to test something."

Lurtz came along with them, wandering around as Vark lifted various weights and weapons, large swords, used in two hands looking like long knives on him. Lurtz was impressed, he was of larger than average size, but he thought Vark would be able to take on a troll is he so desired. He might set up a match with one of the smarter ones if he could, there were several inhabiting Isengard, mainly for manual labour, but Saruman wanted them for his army as well.

Eventually the spontaneous testing finished, the foreman took notes on his pad of paper and Vark straightened, flexing his considerable muscles. The foreman looked up, "The armour will go as planned, I have a few ideas about a weapon, but for now, and until your proper armour is made, I'll cobble together some from the larger Uruk-hai's, I would also recommend two sets to be made." He said, looking over his notes again.

"Why would I need two sets?" asked Vark.

The foreman looked slightly uneasy, "Well…put it this way, with that huge set, you can be a demon on the battlefield" (Vark did not point out that most demons actually wore very little armour, having particularly resilient skin, but assumed the man was using a saying common to those parts) "But you can't march in it, nor will you be able to ride any great distance, even on such a large warg" he said, looking at Blackbite. "Therefore, I recommend two sets, one a lighter armour, and the other the thicker and heavier."

Lurtz nodded at this, "Yes, yes, this is true Nar-Zhâda, the Uruk-hai do the same, one for running, leather, like this." He tapped his breastplate, "One for fighting." He said, pointing to a set of steel on a stand a short distance away.

"Very well." Replied Vark. "Two sets, start on the lighter one, then, once that's finished ill have the heavier designed, that one will no doubt take longer. But the mace as soon as possible. Until all of its finished I will require substitutes. I trust you have sufficient store of arms?" he asked, glowering at the foreman, not for any particular reason, he was just annoyed it was taking so long.

The foreman nodded, mumbled something, presumably an acknowledgement of rank, and walked off, calling out to his subordinates. Lurtz pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against, and walked after Vark, who was walking into the steam, his form shrouded in the mist, heat billowing off the vents in the ground, smaller creatures scurrying out of the way before they were crushed.

_Next chapter details what Taelan and Saruman have been up to whist Vark's been looking at armour._

_Also to clear up any difficulties people had with the orcs:_

_Orcs, several types, ranging in skin colour and size, can be stocky and short, but also tall and gangly, mostly, apeish with long arms and bowed legs, 4-5t feet, depending on origin._

_Uruk-hai, black skin, more muscly, a shorter version of the orcs from WoW, a lot stronger than the orcs of Mordor, or the Misty Mountains orcs. Roughly six feet high._

_Goblins, as orcs are to Uruk-hai, so are goblins to orcs, a smaller still version, three to four feet high, cunning, large eyes and ears, sharp teeth, fond of ranged weapons, knives and poison, they also invent lots of things, good at tunnelling if they set their minds to it._

'_Half-orcs/Goblin-men'- Gamlin mentions these types in the Battle of Helm's Deep, presumably, Saruman used his considerable skills to make a new type of creature, from both humans and orcs._

_The Film trilogy is quite useful for picturing various things in the story, I'm taking the detail from the film, but the plot from the books, for instance, 'my' ents are big tree people, as in, made of wood, not the tall people with green beards from the books, same with wargs, more hyenaish than wolfish. Likewise, there are several associated battles with the films;_

_Battle of Dwalin's Tomb (might not be the exact name) :Goblins and a cave troll_

_Battle of Helms Deep: Uruk-Hai, example of the Uruk-Hai's 'heavy armour' variant, as mentioned by Lurtz, whereas, at the Battle of Amon Hen, they were wearing the leather 'light' variant._

_Battle of Pelenor Fields (Day 1): Orcs, specifically the Mordor variety, you can tell because they have darker skin than the Misty Mountain ones, which have gray, rather than black skin._

_Thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated._


	9. Staffs and Apprenticeships

_Honest Lunar Raven: Thanks for both your reviews, Lurtz will pop up quite a lot, I'm currently assembling the main characters that are going to appear at various points during the story, their backgrounds and motives, as well as some interesting information I can get into the story at some point. But it will be fairly gradual, there's going to be about 20, of them, maybe half original, but of the ones we know already, quite a few will have changes over time._

_Saruman has the Palantír, and has for a long time (about 259 years), since he set up in Orthanc in the LotR cannon, but he hasn't had time to use it yet, he really has no need to, who else controls Orcs in Middle Earth and isn't allied with Sauron? The Orcs of Middle Earth are seen universally as evil beasts; the elves actually hunt them for fun. Therefore, if an obviously powerful Orc turned up at your door and said he was from Sauron, you (probably) wouldn't question it. _

_Also the only army that isn't segregated in LotR is the 'army of evil', there are rare occasions where dwarves, elves and men have allied (Last Alliance, Battle of Five Armies), but they are particularly rare, whereas Mordor frequently fields armies made up of several nations, the Battle of the Pelennor Fields has Mordor, Khand, Harad, Rhûn, Umbar and Hildorien all uniting to fight Gondor and Rohan, therefore, even with a man turning up as well it's still not suspicious, the elf is though, so Saruman is curious, and that will lead somewhere (spoilers). By the way, I have no idea where some of those places are._

_Lurtz's comment about the quarters in Isengard being segregated was correct though, simply because men and Orcs might fight together, but I doubt they'd live together, or even eat together, Gimli has a speech in the Isengard chapter of the books about how he "won't touch anything that's been in an orc house, nor eat anything that's been mauled by orcs", so I assumed they wouldn't want to be staying with the orcs either._

_On a side note, I was wondering how everyone was coping with the language, Middle Earth's vernacular is a good deal different to Azeroth's, Taelan explained a bit of it during their journey, but I hope to clear some of that up, I haven't decided whether I was going to use the fairly normal but somewhat archaic language of the Jackson trilogy, or the immensely complicated Tolkeinspeak, so just let me know about that._

_Thanks for reading, here's the next chapter!_

**Liberation**

**Chapter 9**

**By FractiousDay**

"Tell me Saruman, tell me of the war."

The old wizard looked at his new companion curiously, he had not removed his hood, grey and tattered were his clothes, and his voice had a lilt to it, Saruman recognised it as the same tone he often used in persuasion, the subtle nuances and fluctuation in the music of the voice, most curious.

Saruman swept forward, following the stranger onto the balcony, it looked out over the Circle of Ortanc, the Wizard's Vale sweeping away into the sunset. Saruman came to the rail, gnarled hands gripping his staff, he leaned on it wearily, the sun was almost gone, and the mists from the pits were bathed in strange colours. Different pits had different colours, the foundries let out orange mist, the workshops green, Saruman idly wondered whether it was something to do with the metals used.

Saruman gathered himself, standing a little straighter, "Rohan will fall, for too long the Horse Lords have stood against the Sauron the Great, and he has commanded their destruction. I have studied their land ere long, and for years, had spies in their country, soon, Isengard will be ready, and my armies will march. I have spies in the King's court, and am influenceing his thoughts" Saruman said, eyes glinting as he gazed over his dominion.

"Even from here?" asked the stranger.

"Even from here." Replied the Wizard.

"And what of your forces? I have seen orcs here, and men, you have gathered many." Said the stranger.

"I have, I have made promises to the Dunlendings, Hill Folk of the North, they are a hardy folk, but skilled in the craft of war, their chief, Wulf, son of Freca comes soon, to bind our deal." Replied Saruman.

The hooded head turned to him, and Saruman saw a glint of eyes, like a cat's in the light, white teeth gleamed in the departing sunlight, "What promises did you make?" the voice asked, compelling him to speak.

"In the days of old, when Eorl the Young came down out of the North to the air of Cirion, on the field of Celebrant, the Lords of Gondor committed unto him the stewardship of the lands of Rochann, that is now called Rohan, from the Fords of Isen to the Whitehorn Mountains. Then, when the Rohirrim came, they drove the Wild Men from their lands, earning their bitter hatred and enmity. I have promised their restoration, and they accepted gladly."

A chuckle came from the stranger, Saruman turned, saw a smirk, cruel twist of the lip, a pointed chin, the rest of the face in shadow.

"And then? Where will you conquer after Rohan?" asked the unknown.

"Middle Earth" replied Saruman, after a small pause, he did not notice the knowing look in his companions eyes, or the particular phrase he used. 'Where will _you _conquer?' the voice had asked, not Saruon, but the Wizard himself, Saruman.

There was silence then, the horizon glowed, orange leading into blue, blue deepening to black, stars shining behind the mountains. Howls rang out from the valley, the warg ridding scouts reporting in. Saruman shifted his position, his staff scraping across the floor. His companion hunched over the balustrade, arms folded, chin resting on his wrists. The stranger was quite small now Saruman looked; he had an air of mystery about him, and Saruman determined that he should find out the identity of this person.

"What is your name?" asked the Wizard, his brows furrowed and eyes narrow.

"Taelan" said the stranger, or rather, no longer a stranger.

"What are you?" Saruman then asked, names could have power, but he would also know of what kind this 'Taelan' was.

"I am one of the Dökkálfar" said Taelan.

"I have studied long in this tower, and am known to be one of the great loremasters of the land, and not once have I heard of that folk." Said Saruman in disbelief.

"The Lord Sauron guards us well then." Said the 'Dökkálfar' dispassionately "I have not heard of any of us being allowed on the surface world before."

This took Saruman aback, apparently he was dealing with a new kind of creature, he knew orcs had been twisted from what they were in the long years of the Black Land, and therefore, it was not unusual that this stranger would profess to be a new sort. He had to know more! It would be essential in his production of the Uruk-hai, and they were essential in his plans.

"I have heard of Our Lord taking men into his service, and dwarves on occasion, but you are not a dwarf, though you speak of the 'surface world' as many of their kind, as the Delvers do, dwarves who live almost always beneath the Earth." Said the Wizard, speaking his mind for once, he found honesty to be refreshing on occasion. "I then believe you to be a man, yet you seem to also refute this."

"You would be right" said the shadow, lips twisting further into a sneer.

"Then what are you?" asked Saruman, tiring of this guessing game, he had always held the bones before the throw, it was not in his nature to be without knowledge.

"I am an elf." Was the reply.

Saruman stood up straight at once, hands gripping the black metal of his staff, eyes wide, he had never encountered what could be called a 'dark elf' in all his days, not even in the Halls of the Elder King, Sauron corrupted all though, and Saruman understood this power, he would try to learn more.

"From whence came you?" he asked the elf, clarifying his assumptions.

"My kind were enslaved in ages past, before the Defeat of our Master, we have been held in the Black Mountains, but the Lord Sauron commanded a servant to go into the world, and I was chosen. I was brought before the Lord, and he entrusted me with great power, this power." Said the elf, holding up a hand.

On the elf's hand a bright ring gleamed, not in the sunlight, nor the candles of the room behind them, for there were none. A gem was set in the ring's centre, it showed the light, but it came from within, baleful and smoky, a soft glow, red like fire shone over the elf's hand, fine long fingers and pale skin, covered in part by thin sleeves.

Saruman felt a power coming from the ring; he had studied ring lore carefully, and sent messengers to Eregion in the north to find any news of the elf-smiths and their great craft, with the information that had been brought back he had crafted rings of his own, several failures, but victories as well, he wore one such victory on his hand, it enhanced his magical power, and allowed for a greater deal of control of the elements through his staff, more an aid than an enhancement, but it served its purpose.

"You have some measure of power yourself, I deem." Said the elf, looking significantly toward Saruman's hand. "But it is not Sauron's power, something greater I think, you made it, here, with your own hand, whereas my power was given."

Saruman nodded, easily believing the elf, he felt that the being before him could have similar duties to him, or rather, his past duties, set down by the Elder King in centuries past. Perhaps he could take this elf as his apprentice, nothing had been heard of Ithryn Lui, Alatar and Palando, Saruman sometimes felt surges of power from the East, but no word of the Blue Wizards had been passed back from them. Radagast the Brown, pitiful Wizard that he was, concerned himself with birds and beetles, and was in all a most ineffective Maiar, Gandalf though, Saruman had hoped to convert him, perhaps to use him as a shield to protect from Mordor's wrath after his inevitable betrayal, but he had escaped, carried away by eagles, he would test the newcomer.

"Follow me." Commanded Saruman, sweeping around, and striding away into the tower, his heard his companion push himself up and follow after him, soft footfalls behind him, they walked back into the Palantír Chamber, past the clouded stone, then through a passageway that ran around the edge of the tower, the White Hand of Isengard was displayed in banners along the corridor, then into Saruman's study, it was a fairly small room, low down in the tower, windows facing north and east, taking up a quarter of that level. A storeroom lead of from one corner, keeping many of the larger projects Saruman was working on, and there were also several cupboards, to a particular one strode Saruman.

The cupboard, more like a container actually, a very specific container however, tall and thin, with two diagonal doors at the front, Saruman opened them, revealing a gnarled wooden staff held in metal bindings, a crystal sat on a small pillow on a shelf next to it, and a small silk bag a drawstring holding it closed next to the crystal. Saruman pulled of the bindings and took the staff, leaning his own against a table. He held out the staff to the Dökkálfar, who took it, looking wary.

"What is this?" asked the elf, holding the staff away from him, and eyeing it.

"The Wizard's staff of Gandalf the Grey, "replied Saruman, "I took it from him and-"

Saruman stopped speaking, as the elf held the staff tightly, it shook and began to glow, sparks coming from his hands and dancing around the wood, the elf cried out, trying to throw the thing from him, but he was unable to let go of it, the tremors continued and suddenly the staff exploded, a thunderclap echoing through the tower, pieces of wood scattered around the room, the elf collapsed, cradling his hand to his chest, in on his ring hand the stone glowed strongly, no-longer so baleful and malevolent was the light, but purer and cleaner. The elf gritted his teeth, clenching and unclenching his fingers slowly. He took several breaths, then stood, recovered, still supporting his hand.

"I don't think that worked." He said, rather unnecessarily.

ooOooOoo

Nine swung himself off of his warg's back, and watched his mount wander away, he turned to the building behind him, stout pillars of wood formed an awning to keep the rain off of several guards who lounged around in the entrance, stout broad fellows with dark beards and scars, their manner and bearing practically screamed 'thug'. Nine had seen this type before, if you needed guards in your city you simply sent an emissary to the most violent scum you could find and enquired whether they would please wear a uniform when they were standing around, and loiter in different parts of the city rather than concentrate themselves in one place.

This allowed for control over the more 'dodgy' elements of society, and allowed you a private army that pretty much funded themselves through 'confiscating' possessions on the grounds that they could do far worse if you didn't let them do it.

Nine thought it was despicable.

From a professional point of view it was pathetic, the guards in Stormwind had at least been competent, which let Nine have a bit of fun while he robbed and murdered people, the chase was particularly good, watching them stumble over themselves and try and jump around on roofs following him while he ran. But bad guards equalled a bad chase, and a bad chase turned it into a _job_ rather than a _profession_. It was completely different, or at least that was what he told himself.

Now, guards like these, they wouldn't stand a chance against him, he could kill one with a knife, then draw the others into an ambush, maybe cut the ropes on that awning he though, that would entangle them in a –

"Wait." Said Nine, stopping in his tracks. "I can just walk in; I'm actually doing something legally for once."

Nine laughed at that, drawing a few looks from the pseudo-guards at the entrance, he had lied to the orc at the tower, in fact, though he was tired, the most important thing at the moment was information, he straightened, and walked up to the guards, idly wondering how they would react to a stranger. Two were arguing about something, the third, presumably the leader from the white hand stamped over his breastplate, looked at Nine, assessing him, the leader tapped his fellows on the shoulder and gave a command, stopping their talking, now all of them were looking at Nine, who felt a prickling on the back of his neck, he ignored it, and kept walking toward them.

The leader motioned with his hand and the two others got up and stood in front of the door, hands on their sword hilts.

"Name and business." Called out one, holding his hand out, palm outwards in a 'stop right there' gesture.

"Mathias Shaw, my business is with Cuandur." Replied Nine cheerily, after all, Shaw actually encouraged his operatives to use his name, something about it making him look like he was in more than one place at once, when in fact he was usually at Headquarters doing paperwork.

"And what business would a ragged beggar have with the quartermaster?" asked the other guard.

"Becoming less ragged and beggar-like now you come to mention it." Replied 'Mathias Shaw', still smiling, at least they thought to question him he thought.

This was apparently a reasonable statement, and caused the guards to look back towards their leader, still lounging against a wall, who stepped forward, adjusting his tunic and belt as he did so, Nine frowned at that, as a guard he should have been ready to chase down a fugitive at a moment's notice, not mess about with his clothes, or have his trousers fall down while he was running.

"By whose authority?" asked the betrouser'd one.

Nine smiled at that, time to have a little fun. "Well it was a tall man, long nose and a high forehead, strange voice, wears robes, he's got a stick he carries round I think, lives over there don't you know." He said, indicating the huge and imposing black tower behind him.

"S-Saruman?" stammered the leader, taking a step back in shock.

Nine laughed then, loudly, which seemed to intimidate the guards even more, "Yes, that's the one! Forgot his name for a moment there, well, anyway, he told us to come down, and there was another one, an orc, Lurtz, I think? Told me I could find the Quartermaster here, so if you'd be so kind." he said nonchalantly, gesturing to the guards blocking the door.

The leader spluttered for a few seconds, then touched his forelock, "Yes Milord, I'll take you to him myself." he then shoved one of the guards at the door, who hastily fumbled with some keys and barely got the door open in time for Nine to stride imperiously through. Ducking under the low frame he walked more slowly down a corridor, giving his eyes time to adjust to the gloom, torches flamed every few feet in sconces, lighting the corridor, solid stone with harsh angles in the corners, almost no curves in the structure.

They went down several steps, passing large iron-bound doors on either side of the passageway, then they came to a long hall, strong square pillars held the roof, while the walls were adorned with tapestries and paintings. A fire pit danced merrily in the centre of the room, a large, black log in the centre, branches crudely hacked off, the underside was white and crumbling with the heats, embers of the fire spitting from the bottom, sparks flying. Interesting, or as Nine thought as he walked round the side of the room, one end of the log was burning with a pale blue flame, which was smaller than the more familiar orange flames of the other end, yet hotter.

Hunched figures sat with their backs to the pit, quills in their hands scratching on parchment in front of the, some were goblins, short and broad with thin grasping fingers whilst others were men, but men that looked very similar to the goblins they sat with, the men had grey skin almost, and were very pale, like a prisoner that has not seen the light of day in years. Beyond the long tables a larger table stood, at the end of the hall, the fire pit being joined by another in a 'T' shape, older men, with long beards and ink-stained hands shuffled toward the table, grabbing pieces of parchment from the workers and clutching it carefully, they delivered the paper to what was presumably the Quartermaster and orderer of the supplies and equipment of Isengard, he sat in a larger chair, a pair of spectacles on his nose, perusing a sheaf of parchment in front of him. Two attendants sat on either side of him, with larger stacks of paper, they passed the most important documents to the master, keeping the lesser matter to themselves.

Nine was amused at the whole set up, if anyone wanted any reasonably secret documents from the place, they could just stand in a corner with a crossbow and pick of the workers, one by one, causing the huge levels of panic you see whenever untrained people get pushed into a situation unfamiliar to them. The room was incredibly smoky as well, although, Nine though, that serves them right for making a fire underground without proper ventilation systems.

Nine waltzed up to the Quartermaster, coughing slightly, in both announcement of his presence, and because the smoke was really tickling his lungs and being incredibly annoying. 'Cuandur', however, ignored him, apparently not hearing. Deciding on the subtle approach Nine cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled: "Oi! I want some clothes!"

Nine's escorts/guards/stalkers looked scandalised at his brusqueness, but were silent for the most part, one of them sniggered, earning themselves a cuff over the head from the leader. But, Nine's objective was achieved and the middle figure looked up.

A thin man, pale, hooked nose, lank blonde hair, and thin lips, "Yes? And who might you be?" he asked in a dry cracked voice.

"My name is unimportant; Saruman commands that my companions and I be 'provided for'." Nine replied with a slight sneer, "And as our provisioning might take some time, I wouldn't want to take you away from your work, so ill want three servants, one for me and the others for my friends. I'll take them now, make sure they can read and write and are reasonably intelligent."

Cuandur gave a whispered command to his right-hand attendant, who scurried away; he then waved his hands at the guards, who backed away, turning, Nine was facing forward, so didn't see one of them get entangled in his scabbard and stagger a few steps, then crash into a desk, spewing ink everywhere. Cuandur started straight at Nine, who stared back, Cuandur looking very serious and disapproving, Nine imagining what the amusing noises can have been made by. After a few minutes of the guard apologising he was dragged away, Cuandur sighed and went back to his notes and Nine wandered around looking over different people's shoulders at their work and generally asking awkward questions and being obnoxious.

Eventually, about a dozen youths came in, with one very short goblin, looking particularly young, although Nine admitted to himself that the only way he would tell the age of an orc or a goblin was the number of scars they had and or body parts they _hadn't._ The troop were followed, or more like herded into the room by a tall man, he looked like the Quartermaster, but better fed, and his skin wasn't so sallow. He lined the group up in front of Nine, who looked over them.

"All sorts this job takes then?" asked Nine dryly to the 'herder', who nodded back at him and swept a hand over the group, taking a step to the side of Nine as he did so. The herder started up some meaningless lecture about the group, but Nine was more interested in who they were, rather than the labels this rambler gave them.

Nine walked down the line several times, and eventually decided, after a few questions to each one he either tapped them on the shoulder of passed on to the next one, then he stepped back.

"The three I selected, step forward." He said, clearly in the gloom. They did so, all were quite thin, one tall, one short and another of average height. He pointed to the first, a tall, lanky boy with dark hair and a sneering face, a scar marking his face from his right check, down over his lips then down his neck and over his collarbone, finally disappearing under a rough-spun shirt. "Name?" he asked dispassionately.

"Morac" replied the scarred boy, looking defiant.

Nine nodded once to him and gestured for him to stand beside him, the boy walked forward hesitantly, and spun on his heel facing the other two. Nine moved to the next one, the taller of the two left, blonde hair, shorn messily around his shoulders, bright blue eyes looked out from under a short fringe, the child reminded him of Taelan slightly, Nine supposed he could be the one Taelan had, a helper in whatever arcane rituals the elf needed doing perhaps. He repeated his question.

"Loras" said the potential apprentice, looking less defiant than the first, and more accepting of his fate.

"If only you knew." Replied Nine, pointing again for the boy to stand on his other side. He turned to the last 'applicant', and after a few second looking Nine realised something.

"You are a girl." He said slowly, then took several long steps toward the girl and grabbed her by the hair he turned her face into the light. She had a dirty brown hair, a long face, grey eyes and unusually small teeth, that she used to bite Nine wrist. Nine laughed, he was wearing gloves so it didn't hurt him, but she amused him, releasing her and grabbing her wrists he held her at arm's length, mainly to avoid her trying to bite him again. "What's your name girl?" he asked, still smiling.

"Lehah" came the answer, at which point she spat at Nine, who ducked, but looked even more pleased.

"You'll do." He said, then looking back to the possible brother of the Quartermaster, who had been disregarding the proceedings and reading his notes. Nine waved one hand airily at him, dismissing him. The man bowed stiffly and led the rest out, the small goblin hesitated for a moment, looking back at Nine, almost pleadingly. Nine sighed, "Wait, you, goblin, you as well." the goblin looked back at the supervisor, who shrugged uncaringly and walked away, the remaining children following after him.

Nine opened his mouth to ask the creatures name, but the lanky fellow, Morac, interrupted, "Lord?" he asked hesitantly, "He doesn't have a name, none of the young ones do, we just call them Snaga, only the high-ups have names."

"Oh really?" Nine looked from Morac to 'Snaga' and back to Morac, "Oh well, whoever gets him can name him then." Nine put his hands on his hips, "Right then, let's go meet your new employers shall we?" he asked cheerily, then set off down the long hall, and through the corridor to the surface. He talked whilst he walked, his new charges struggling to keep up with his long stride.

Morac walked quickly beside him, head held high, the tight skin of his scar shining in the torchlight, Loras shuffled nervously along, blue eyes darting around. Lehah slumped in a sort of 'rebellious jog' and broke into a run every few feet to keep up with the others whilst Snaga brought up the rear with a rolling ape-like gait.

"Each of you will serve as page, squire or general helper to either myself, the Lord Taelan, or the Lord Vark, Morac," the boy's head snapped up, "You'll train under me, an apprentice if you will." He glanced at Morac, who nodded once, looking uncertain. "Loras, most likely Taelan will benefit most from you, and you from him, do you read books?" he asked the blonde.

"Some Milord." The boy replied.

"Good." Said Nine nodding, "You'll need to with Taelan."

He looked at Lehah, still marching stoically behind, making sure there was at least a few feet's distance between her and the other members of the group. "You, you can go to Vark, he'll deal with you, Taelan won't care to and I'll be too busy." She didn't seem to acknowledge him, so he continued on. "Snaga." The goblin had been watching him in trepidation, "Taelan won't want you, assuming you're not some kind of strange magical creature that I don't know about?" the goblin shook its head quickly, its ears wagging comically. "Vark might have you." Nine contemplated, "Actually no, you can come with me along with Morac."

By this time they had reached the end of the corridor, the three guards stood in the doorway again, one covered in ink, the other two playing some sort of game of chance with a set of bones. Nine nodded to them, then saluted back, and Nine walked off, four small figures following on his heels.

OOOoooOOO

_This chapter was originally going to be a set of perspectives between Taelan and Nine, but it sort of grew to just two, originally originally, there was going to be three chapter, one from each of the character's perspectives, but the discussion between Taelan and Saruman reached it conclusion (for the moment) so it switched to Nine instead. _

_Also; Horray, four more characters!_

_Next chapter's gonna be Nine wandering round Isengard for a bit and the three protagonists meeting up to have a talk, and should be out reasonably soon, as I've already written a few thousand words for it._


	10. Hammers and Dens

_Honest Lunar Raven, you're like a constant reviewing person, so I really don't mind if you don't leave huge reviews, it's nice just to have them, and good to know someone has taken the effort to even leave a review, also good to get little bits of feedback every chapter, easier to improve it immediately, rather than having to go back in a few months and re-do everything, so thanks._

**Liberation**

**Chapter 10**

**By FractiousDay**

Lehah followed the Dark Man into the night; she was going to someone called 'Vark' apparently, which would at least be better than the orphanage.

Lehah had heard that word from Teacher, Teacher had said he needed three people to come with him and all the boys who could write to get up, but Lehah went as well, she was always an adventurous streak but the Dark Man had seen her in the bigger hall, she had never been there before and Teacher told everyone not to speak till they were spoken to.

Lehah thought it was strange that the Dark Man was named after a number.

She idly kicked at a rat running across the path, sending it scuttling away from her, she grinned at that, she always hated rats, they were filthy and they left mess everywhere, especially after she had just cleaned. Some of the thinner boys caught them and ate them, but they stopped after they got sick.

It was good that Loras was here, he was a quiet boy, but nice when he did speak to her, he taught her to read from the book about dwarves. She liked to read sometimes, and reading had (sort of) got her here, otherwise, when Teacher called for people (boys) who could read, she wouldn't have joined in. She would have to thank Loras later, she could give him an interesting rock, she had found one last week, it was red with a crack going down it.

She heard Snaga shuffling behind them, teacher had wanted to get rid of him for years, but the other man in the tower had said no, Wizard, the white one. No-one liked Snaga, she tried to talk to him sometimes, but he never said anything back.

Morac was…distant, he went to train with swords like the older boys, that's where she heard he got his scar. One of the other boys had laughed when Morac told them that, and then he called Morac a liar. She had to clean up the blood of the floor. Everyone was nicer to Morac after that.

Lehah suddenly walked into the back of the Dark Man. "Stop." He said quietly, "Don't make a sound, and stay with me." She wondered what he meant, he was standing in front of the group, a shiny knife in his hand, the grip reversed so the blade was pointed downwards, she wondered why he was being so hostile, she couldn't see anything in the darkness.

Loras shouted from beside her, pointing into the fog and smoke, then they heard a howling, it lasted for what seemed like hours, but was actually only a few minutes, it seemed to shake the ground, and finally, dark shapes were streaming out of a hole in the ringwall, shadows in the fog, they ran toward the group, breaking around them like water and rocks, none coming within a few feet. Lehah was scared then, she saw the wolves now, some covered in blood, it streamed down their throats and faces and paws up to their elbows. Then one warg, particularly big and scary came, something on its back, it came out of the fog up to the Dark Man, he sighed and put his knife away in a makeshift scabbard on his hip, then raised hand in greeting.

The shape turned out to be another man, not as dark as the Dark Man, he had no beard and a pointed chin and nose. His face was covered in shadow from a wide hood and he gripped the warg's fur with one hand, the other resting on his hip.

"Hello Nine," the figure said with a smirk, "did you know you have several gnomes following you?"

OoOooOoO

"These are the latest plans Sir"

Vark thought they would do rather well. The drawings showed a formidable figure, the helmet was tall, a smooth head with a crown of horns around it, Vark wondered where they would get the horns from or whether Bronn (as he had learnt the Armourer's name was) would make them out of metal. Moving down, there were a pair of slanted eye sockets, then a flat plate with several sections cut out if it for him to breathe out of. They had decided on a fixed helmet, rather than two separate ones because of the 'intimidation factor' as Bronn called it, the helm would strike fear into his enemies, therefore, whenever they saw it on the battlefield, enemies would be disheartened and allies fight harder.

Next were the pauldrons, solid steel, blacked, as they had agreed, they extended to the neck, connecting to a gorget, which was apparently optional, the pauldrons were rounded, allowing for sword and axe strokes to skid of the surface, rather than penetrating, apparently unless large boulders were attacking him he wouldn't have to worry about blunt force trauma, owing to the thickness of the armour and the weight of it on him, the mass coming toward him would be negated by whatever momentum he already had. Vark had asked if swords could still get through it, which resulted in a long conversation about eye-slits and the joints, specifically the neck and underarms.

The chestplate was sturdy, impressive pectoral and abdominal muscles picked out in a lighter metal, red-gold in colour, Bronn informed him that it would not dent, and set straight after casting, he had learnt its secret in Dale, years ago before he came to Isengard. Vambraces and thigh and shin plates finished off the armour, Bronn planned to make the rest of it later on, fitting Vark for Chainmail and thinner pieces of metal on the exposed areas on his body after the first stage was complete.

"Good, you have done well, and will be rewarded for your service." Replied Vark, he was trying to hide his awkwardness at addressing subordinates and sycophants of every description, he once asked for some food, at which point several goblins scuttled up, bearing a searing boar on a platter.

Vark was pleasantly surprised, if a little uncomfortable at the deference, but knew he would have to keep up the act for it to work, Blackbite however, was quite pleased, not having ever been waited on before, he eagerly devoured the boar, Vark grabbing a leg and a rack of ribs before it was all gone. The cracks and pops of bones being destroyed for their marrow was actually quite distracting, and Blackbite was now curled up in a corner, a heap of broken and split bones on one side, the remains of the boar's carcass on the other.

"Is everything to your liking Sir?" asked Bronn, looking at Vark hunched over a workbench, a few pages of the plans grasped in a hand.

Vark nodded in appreciation of the piece, imagining himself dressed in the armour. "Indeed it is, what do you think will be able to get through it? Not arrows, maybe a crossbow I think, but smaller weapons are unlikely."

"You should look out for trolls." Replied the armourer with a smirk, then, remembering himself, reformed his face to one of helpful obedience.

Vark smiled as well, he had not yet seen a troll in this world, being more used to the occasional troll soldier in Azeroth, but apparently they were rather large and powerful here, rather than the gangly, bluish tusked creatures he was used to. In a one-on-one duel, Vark was fairly certain that with his new armour he could win against almost anything in this new world, that was, anything he knew about.

"The weapon?" he asked Bronn eagerly, who handed him another parchment. Vark accepted it greedily, he was most weary of being unarmed, and had already picked up a long black knife, probably a shortsword in anyone else's hands, he slipped it into a sleeve and tied a short knot there in case he was ever attacked.

After the demonstrations of his fighting style, Bronn had recommended a slight change in the designs of the weapon, asking after several different types of weapon, and asking Vark if he wanted to use an axe instead, reasoning that his strength combined with the weight of the axe would easily get through many different types of armour, after all, Bronn said, an axe is 'basically a sharp mace'.

However, Vark was a shaman, regardless of whether anyone knew it yet. And therefore, he would follow Thrall's footsteps, or rather 'weapon swings' instead of Hellscream's. He always preferred blunt weapons anyway. Taelan usually teased him about this 'subtle' side of his personality.

The paper he held represented a sort of warhammer, not a maul or a mace as Vark had thought, but a heavy blunt side on one part of the weapon, and a pointed, slightly curved hook on the other, this, or so Bronn explained, would allow him to penetrate heavier armour, but also to crush lighter types.

The new drawing was fairly unremarkable, as Vark had vetoed the warhammer idea, as well as some of the heavier axes, Bronn had come up with a new design, a long handle, one end a leather loop was attached, when slipped over the wrist it would make it more difficult to lose the weapon or be disarmed, at the other end, following a metal shaft and a grip with a guard to ward of blows, was a solid cylinder of steel, with six barbs coming off it, retaining the weight and power of a mace, without losing the concentration of force by the barbs.

Vark sighed at this, he had never tried a flanged mace, but was about to accept what was apparently the inevitable, when a pale long-fingered hand reached out and snatched the plans from him. He turned angrily toward it, only to find a short, hooded figure standing there, one hand reading, the other bandaged and sitting in a sling.

"Well 'hello' to you too." He said smiling at his old friend and brother, if not by birth of blood, but by choice and battle.

"Good Evening," replied Taelan haughtily, then smiled, "You're not seriously considering this are you?" he asked, shaking the paper at him, rustling loudly.

Vark shrugged, "We can't find any other weapons that will suit me" he replied.

"We?" Taelan enquired, one delicate eyebrow raised.

In answer Vark directed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating Bronn hammering away at some complicated piece of metal. Taelan gave a slight 'oh', and subsided; he looked from Bronn to Vark a few times, then raised his hand to his chin, tapping his finger along the line of his jaw, looking up and to the side slightly.

Vark waited for his friend to respond, Taelan occasionally started off into the distance, (or in this case, Vark's left shoulder) and didn't respond for some time, Vark usually threw something at him, he thought he was fairly tolerant of his friends personality quirks but often wondered if it might be something more sinister.

"Well?" asked Vark impatiently after a silence, "What do you suggest then? O Loremaster?"

Taelan sneered, "Saruman called himself that, wanted to know where I was from, made up some rubbish about it, apparently Dökkálfar exist here too, although I suspect he would have lapped anything I said up, he seemed to have absolutely no idea who I was, I found it most amusing." seeing Vark's look of interest he waved a hand at him, "Later, later, we need to find Nine first, and I want to sleep before it gets to dawn, tomorrow at noon perhaps? Orthanc's steps?"

Vark nodded, still wondering about the Wizard but happy that he would be getting answers soon, he took the weapon plans out of Taelan's unresisting hand, setting them down on a small table nearby, a goblin scuttled up and took them back to a large shelf of scrolls on the other side of the cavern. Vark felt rough fur under his hand, he looked down, Blackbite was standing there, having crept up on him, no mean feat when the animal in question weighed at least three and a half thousand pounds. "What?" Vark asked him, Blackbite continued nuzzling him and made a growling noise deep in his throat, Vark recognised this as the warg version of a whine, signifying Blackbite's discomfort.

Vark looked at his recently acquired friend and mount, as his did he noticed a weariness the warg, his fur was dull and had lost its sheen, and he stood less proudly, almost slumping. Vark patted his head, letting his hand drift over the short ears and down the rougher mane down the warg's neck, he nodded again, then walked away, Taelan falling into a familiar formation behind him, warg on one side, slightly ahead, scenting the air every few metres, Taelan's eyes darting around, following every movement in the foundry.

Vark walked at a gentle pace, letting Blackbite lead, his mount was as the phrase went 'dog tired' somewhat ironic, thought Vark, given the circumstances. Of course on an intellectual level he knew the wargs must be exhausted after their long, almost uninterrupted journey, but he hadn't considered the effects the trip must have had, he himself didn't feel particularly tired, his muscles did not ache, but assumed that was because of his riding training,

Taelan could also ride, but normally didn't show fatigue anyway, using spells to drain the life out of the animals they came across, both as a exercise in concentration and control, and as a more profitable way of killing consumables, hitting things repeatedly with pointy objects or setting them alight with demonic fire tended to ruin the hides of animals, and Taelan usually sold them to someone after they got back to base following a scavenging excursion. Vark worried slightly about the affect constant streams of energy could have on his friend's body, he had heard stories from his father of warlocks who's muscles had atrophied and could only walk with the assistance of magic, he'd even seen a few of them in Orgrimmar, they usually took to begging, imps and other demons no longer taking an interest in broken, weak shells, even for possession.

Nine, Vark assumed, would also be fine, being a spy and a murderer by profession he would probably be quite fit and able to take the effects of short term sleep deprivation reasonably well, and thus, Vark didn't worry about him as much. Actually come to think of it, Vark just didn't care as much about the man, necessity had thrown them together, and they had bonded, but not on the same level as Taelan, or even Blackbite.

_Although_ (thought Vark) _our first meeting was via a bolt from a crossbow, and that would have soured relations somewhat._

Vark reached up unconsciously stroked a short purple scar on his scalp, a memento of Nine's original hostility. But, Taelan was accepting of the rouge, so Vark had no trouble with him either, he had learned long ago to trust Taelan's judgement.

They came to a dark passageway, the entrance to the warg dens, Vark remember Lurtz pointing it out earlier, but he was thinking about other thing at the time, and therefore didn't realise that was the 'stables' of Isengard, he wondered if the warg riders were the entire force of cavalry of Isengard, or if there were horses as well. It would be interesting to test which of the two were better, Wargs had ferocity and stamina whereas horses had speed and discipline.

Vark ducked under a low arch, entering into another cave, this one was of medium size, with large circular pits every few metres in the floor, Vark could only speculate to their function, perhaps as training for the wargs he wondered, but he walked up to the edge of one and peered in.

OooO

The place stank.

Taelan held a sleeve to his nose as he followed Vark into the cave, he didn't have to duck, being quite small for his race, he let Blackbite go ahead, preferring that they took care of any resistance to their entry, rather than him, he was feeling quite nauseous at the smell. This was very odd for him, given that he practiced blood magic as a matter of course and had been able to dissect an enemy's (or a allies) corpse and render in into its constituent parts for several years.

He patted his chest, relieved to hear a soft _clink_ of glass there. _Good, who knows what would happen if someone found out about them_ he thought.

Vark had walked up to one of the pits, Taelan had an ominous feeling he knew what was down there, this place bore a striking resemblance to the descriptions of Grim Batol during the Second War. Taelan removed his knife from its hiding place in the sling, he did not actually need the support for his hand, but it was good for the purposes of misinformation, making appear weaker and more…_human_. The knife would be good for added insurance in case of any unpleasantness if the cave was really what he assumed it to be. No doubt there would be killing soon enough if that were so.

Taelan looked around warily, the cave was unusually long and narrow, but still looked natural, with only the pits having been dug out, large braziers held embers that burned dully, filling the cavern with a soft, orange light. Dark metal braces held torches and tables near each pit were topped with crops, harnesses and other riding gear. Unusually there seemed to be no large saddles, most were only a thin brace of leather between the rider and the mount, Taelan walked over to a wooden stand where a damaged saddle was being repaired, the repairer was nowhere to be seen, but Taelan assumed he would return in time.

The construction was far different from a horse's saddle, whereas one normally sat on a horse and directed it, when riding a warg Taelan had been obliged to take a more active part in the riding, clinging on as best he could with his knees and thighs while Greyflood loped along, when the warg travelled slower one could sit up, but still had one's legs curled up, holding onto the flanks of the warg, rather than having the feet dangle in stirrups. The prevented the rider from standing in the stirrups, and therefore from fighting or shooting whilst traveling at full gallop. However, it did allow the rider to be far more effective in close combat, utilising the Warg's natural weapons, fangs and claws, as well as their far denser bodies to shunt the enemy.

The reason for the lack of stirrups was that a warg's body was much lower to the ground, a horse has long, thin legs, enabling it to run quickly over grass, its weight distributed evenly between four hooves, whereas wolves and other canines have paws, making them more manoeuvrable because of the greater surface area, but slower, their legs were also stockier and shorter, meaning anyone with stirrups would likely have their feet very badly bruised after a ride.

Taelan was so deep in his thoughts about saddles and riding animals, that he almost missed a very interesting turning point in Isengard's history.

"_What_ is going on here?" asked a cold voice from behind him, he spun quickly, and saw a huge dark shape, its arm outstretched, muscles bulging, holding a short grey-skinned creature by the throat. Taelan's knife came out; he stalked slowly up to the figure, which, as his eyes adjusted to the new light level, he recognised as Vark, his face grim, jaw set, eyes fierce.

The goblin in his hand spluttered and gasped for breath, his eyes bulging and his face slowly turning red, an unpleasant combination for his skin pigment. Vark's eyes narrowed, and his grip tightened, Taelan heard a sickening grinding noise from the goblin's neck, Vark's huge hand curling all the way around the thin throat, fingers overlapping at the spine. The goblin started to go into convulsions and Vark dropped him. Taelan looked up at his friend, Vark still looked furious, but now his fury was more directed, all upon the unfortunate goblin cowering at his feet.

Vark glanced at Taelan, then nodded to the pit to their side, Taelan warily edged up, putting a foot on the lip of the wall. He held out a hand, then pushed some of his power into his ring, it glowed red, the light shining out of it and into the dark pit. Several pairs of eyes shone in the blackness, they had no discernible pupils or irises, instead a smoky grey occupied the centre, steadily fading into an off white colour. His ring lit up the pit by now, Taelan didn't have to worry about anyone seeing, the goblin would be dead shortly. As he looked, shapes writhed in the darkness; the floor of the pit was filthy, gnawed bones and mangled viscera scattered about. Four wolves stood there, heads upwards, each had a manacle attached to one of their front legs, and without fail they looked to tight, old dried blood coloured the metal, the fur on their ankles long ago having worn off.

Several of the wargs had wounds, either claw or bite marks, or, on one larger animal, what looked like several whip marks, red scars running along the haunches, then, newer, more recent marks, further to the goblin "stable master's" list of neglect were the lack of any form of medical attention, the whipped warg's wounds were running with pus and other, less mentionable fluids.

Taelan grimaced, feeling distinctly uneasy about the animal's treatment, he was, naturally, a fairly cruel person, owing somewhat to himself, and somewhat to his demonic activities, but he was never cruel without course, and never to something that couldn't understand it. He would bait and taunt enemies in battle, as would Vark, and both of them had trained with an interrogator to desensitise them to torture (both their own work and the enemy's after capture), just as many of the Horde had. But both of them condemned cruelty to animals was pointless, they wouldn't be intimidated, as few were intelligent enough to understand it. For these reasons, the now recovered goblin on the floor was in very deep trouble.

"Sharkey says they's to be kept there," sneered the goblin, "tha's what 'e says! Came down 'ere himself! Like this! They to be for the war, 'e says!"

Taelan was amused to note the difference between this goblin's speech patterns and the other Uruk-hai's, presumably due to their upbringing, if any sort of childcare was lavished upon them. The goblin in question spat while he kept making excuses to an increasingly unamused Vark, his teeth were forward facing, and jutted out from his lips, the eyes were narrow and beady and the head unusually elongated, an unusual scar pattern across the side and fore of the heard, crosshatched and squared patterns across it.

Eventually Vark tired of the goblin's explanations, and promptly backhanded the small creature across the face; the head flying around so fast Taelan wondered why its neck didn't snap. Teeth, blood and spittle flew from its mouth, scattering on the floor with a wet _tinkling_ noise, the goblin pushed itself up from the floor, black sludge dripping from its mouth. Taelan made a mental note to investigate whether it had different properties from other hues of blood.

However before the goblin could sit up properly, a deep growl came from behind it, and it was shoved back into the stone floor, a black paw on its back, claws digging into its flesh, Blackbite stalked out of the shadows, Nine's and Taelan's own mounts flanking him. Greyflood stalked slowly up to the goblin, then taking an arm in her mouth, slowly crushed it, not a flat out bite, just the steady application of pressure. Taelan heard the bones snap. He inwardly applauded his warg, wondering how long Vark would prolong the death.

The goblin was screaming by now, Charlie had taken a leg, ripping it out of its socket, he threw it with his jaws into the pit, the baying of the wargs inside indicating their pleasure at the new offering. Taelan quickly cauterised the wound with a burst of green-tinged fire, not wanting the goblin to bleed out. He watched appreciatively as the wargs worked, impressed with the deftness of jaws, claws and justice in their application. Taelan's eyes wandered down to the pit again, he noticed a small hole in the wall, assuming it was how the goblins got the warg's out of the pits he also noticed a gate on it, it was of fairly shoddy construction, more a latticework of rusty metal than an actual gate.

"Shall we free them?" he asked, looking at Vark and then pointing towards the gate. The orc nodded stiffly, and strode away to another pit. Taelan was just about to put another burst of demon fire into the gate, when he heard a wet crunch from the now disembowelled goblin, he turned, just in time to see Blackbite's jaws descend on the goblin's head, covering it entirely, the warg pulled, Greyflood had the other leg in her jaws and was puling as well, the goblin's neck, already mauled beyond recognition, gave out, and the head came off, followed by a significant part of the spinal column, Blackbite threw it into the pit, then raised his bloody snout to the ceiling and the sky above it, and howled long and loud, the noise reverberating around the long cavern. Eyes were uplifted from the pits, milky white but still strong, ears pricked up, hackles were raised, and more howls joined the black warg's, then, from other caverns the message was heard, and as dawn broke in Isengard, the sleepy morning was rent with the sound of bloody vengeance as the warg's turned on their handlers, jumping out of the pits, or dragging the goblins in by arm or leg and devouring them.

Taelan shivered in the darkness, not from cold, for it was quite warm in the cave, but he could feel the power of the scene, his ring could too, the gem was throbbing and vibrating slightly in its setting, the ruby in its place having turned a sickly yellow colour. Taelan was fascinated by this new development, he directed it at the gate, then willed his power into it, the normal green fire that sprang out was now lighter, and instead of being made up of several different shades of green, it now held a yellow flame in the centre, that seemed to burn brighter than the rest. It shortly melted the gate, and Taelan jumped into the pit, whistling for Greyflood to follow him, he set about burning the chains off the warg's ankles, wary of burning the wargs themselves, Greyflood barked at him, standing by his side, he grabbed a handful of fur then leapt up, and they sprinted down the tunnel, Taelan cackling at the new emotions and power that was flowing through him, they passed more gates on their way out, Taelan burned each one with the new yellow flame, more wargs flooded into the passageway, following his Grey, completely silent apart from the pad of paws on the soft earth.

They burst out into sunlight, snarling, gazing around for prey, Greyflood scented a familiar smell, and started running again, some of the faster wargs overtook her, slipping past like ghosts, then away into the fog and fumes that still hung over Isengard. They slowed eventually an Taelan saw where Greyflood was leading him, he smiled, resting a hand on his hip and called out a greeting to the group of people in front of them.

"Hello Nine," he said with a smirk, "did you know you have several gnomes following you?"

ooOOOoo

_Note, before anyone angrily asks why I was having the wargs treated so badly and gets annoyed at me, this is probably how they were treated in the books/films, in Two Towers, Saruman comes down to the warg pits and talks to Mr. Frontwards Teeth Goblin and is all 'Send out your Warg Riders!' and you see in the background what is effectively a dog fighting pit, a sport that's banned in pretty much all modern countries. Furthermore, on their way to Isengard in the second book, the wargs are eating the dead goblins and orcs, Gandalf then informs the reader that 'such is the friendship between those folk' which leads me to believe that they were treated fairly abhorrently, and I'm not accepting Tolkien's implication that they did it 'cuz they were evil'. Yes, in the Hobbit there is a pretty civilised discussion between a warg and a goblin, but I explored that slightly in Chapter 8 in Lurtz's monologue._

_Anyway, animal abuse aside, thanks for reading, the next chapter will be released in a couple of days, as I split it up from this one, as I thought the comedy might distract from the more serious mood of the chapter._


	11. Conquest

_Upon reading back a few of the chapters for relevant plot points for the story, I've noticed I've started calling Taelan's warg Greyflood, when she was originally Silverflood. I hadn't noticed this, and am now not sure what to call her, but I think I'll go back to 'Silverflood' as it sounds more feminine, however, if someone feels particularly strongly about it, feel free to let me know. Therefore, from this chapter onwards, Taelan's warg is called Silverflood, please disregard any reference to 'Greyflood' in previous chapters._

**Liberation**

**Chapter 11**

**By FractiousDay**

"What have you done!?" yelled an angry Nine, falling into a crouching stance, hand on a knife hilt at his belt, the wargs on either side of their group continued to streak past, the morning mist shredded as they ran through it, the vapours dissipating into the sky.

Behind him the children had gathered together, the goblin, Snaga looking ready to bolt at the first opportunity, the two smaller children clinging together, the taller boy standing in a ready stance, head held high, only his wide eyes betraying his fear.

"I've cried havoc and let slip the dogs of war." Replied an arrogant Taelan, perched on his grey-coated warg. "Now mount up, and let's get out of here!" with that explanation Silverflood bounded away, baying and howling like the rest of the wargs.

With a muffled oath of 'By the Light!' Nine looked frantically round for his own mount, just as he started to despair, the familiar brown animal raced up, barking at him, muzzle red with blood, a hungry look in his eye. "Call more!" Nine shouted to it, watching it bark to a few other wargs, momentarily noting his own warg's intelligence in comparison with the others.

He quickly loaded up his charges onto different animals, and jumped aboard his own, then ran off, there was a slight pile up at the gate, where some of the wargs had been stopped (briefly) by the guards, but after a crowded run through the tunnel they emerged out into the dawn, making their way rapidly down the road, the packs spreading out across the land, the faster wargs scouting ahead but never going too far. They crested a hill and in the now full light of dawn Nine saw a veritable _tide_ of fur covering the valley, seeming to flow like water along the paths of least resistance. Nine saw a figure on a large black warg further down in the valley, and urged Charlie forward with his heels, glancing behind him to make sure the others were still mounted.

**O oOo O**

Taelan swung himself up onto a branch, his thin muscles burning with the effort, the bark was rough under his fingers and slightly slippery with moisture left over from the dew that had accumulated overnight. Moss grew up the trunk which made climbing up more difficult, and Taelan's shoes slipped as he scrabbled, trying to get enough leverage to swing himself fully up onto the branch. He heard a sigh from above him, and a hand reached down, easily lifting him till he was sitting, not too comfortably, in the wedge between the tree and the branch.

"Are you _quite_ alright?" a mocking Nine asked him, having regained his languid position on a higher, and inexplicably, thinner, limb higher up in the foliage.

In answer Taelan shot a gout of fire toward the human, scorching the trunk near Nine's feet. Nine swore under his breath, edging away from the now burning tree, Nine took a grip on the top branch, then levered himself off, swinging in a vertical arc, Taelan watched in horror as Nine straightened out, legs shooting forward and catching Taelan in the chest, hitting him off the branch, and as Taelan felt toward the ground he saw Nine standing on _his_ branch, laughing at him.

"Stop." Vark's voice rang out, and Taelan felt vines wrap around his leg, halting his descent, he was lowered gently to the ground and dumped unceremoniously on the floor, the vines dropping and hanging back to their previous positions, swaying in a slight breeze. Taelan pushed himself off the floor, dusting off his robes, ragged as they were, they never did see about getting new clothes.

"Well," remarked Nine from the branch, "we ran away, stole their cavalry, and killed some guards." He smiled, "What do we do now?"

Taelan shot him an angry look at the insinuation of cowardice, they had not _run._

Vark did not reply at first, his gaze wandered out over the wandering animals below them, Silverflood had lead them to a large clearing, a standing stone at the centre, certainly not a natural rock either, it jutted out of the ground with a smooth face, like a pulpit, Vark sat cross-legged at the edge, Blackbite and a few other large warg's guarded the bottom edge of the stone, whilst smaller beasts milled about at the bottom and in the eaves of the forest. Taelan was interested to note that the darkness of the coat seemed to correlate directly with the size and power of the animal in question, Blackbite, was, as his name suggested, black, and easily the largest and most powerful of the group which numbered at least two thousand, if not more, many had spread out amongst the woods, the rest staying in the clearing, the rest were brown for the most part and tended to be more stocky and broader, but not as large as their darker cousins, Nine's mount tended toward this type. The greys were the most uncommon, Taelan had seen only a few of that coloration in the whole pack, they also seemed to be faster and sleeker than the others, more like actual wolves than hyenas, they had longer tails as well, presumably to keep them balanced as they ran, the greys being faster than the others, they would, no doubt, require more balance.

"We talk." Replied Vark laconically, finally looking at his friends.

Nine dropped forward, somersaulting of his perch and landing neatly, he walked forward; Taelan had already taken up station at Vark's feet, a few steps away from the standing stone. The masses of wargs parting around him like a river. They receded once he went on, and Nine joined Taelan at the base of the rock.

"Well that was the main aim of coming here wasn't it?" Nine asked.

Taelan shook his head, "No," he replied "Our aim was information. Which, in some part, we have acquired, and before any plans are made I would suggest we go over this information." Vark nodded once at this, and Taelan went on, "The obvious first; Vark, where are we?"

Vark looked pensive at this. "About twelve miles south of Isengard." He replied.

"Lovely" said Taelan back to him, "When are we?" then, seeing the confusion on their faces, clarified his question "I mean what's the date?"

Vark apparently had no idea and continued staring off into the distance; Nine was counting on his fingers, eventually reaching an appropriate number he looked up, "The 3rd of November?" he asked hesitantly.

"I thought the 2nd, but maybe, we're still not sure when we arrived, so we don't know, then we took slightly longer than a week to get here, then arrived the day before yesterday, stayed the night, then rode out at dawn, and took around a day to get here, now its morning again." Replied Taelan, various metaphorical cogs and gears moving in his head.

Nine nodded, then remembering his SI:7 training, went back to the style of briefings he was familiar with. "Objective?" he asked, looking up at Vark.

"Isengard" replied the Orc.

Nine nodded again, no reason to say more on that matter, "Assets?" he asked, again looking up at the Orc.

Vark looked down at them, stroking a short beard he had grown over the last few days, "Us, powerful and skilful individuals" here Taelan snorted at Vark's modesty, "that is, one shaman, an assassin and a magic user of various disciplines." Said Vark, disregarding Taelan's antics.

Taelan spoke then, "Couple 'a thousand wargs, mostly battle trained." Taelan 'ummmed' for a few seconds, glanced up at Vark and shrugged, then motioned toward Nine, "All your hidden killy things." He said grinning slightly.

"Equipment in general then." Replied Nine in a condescending tone. He then took out six knives and daggers of various sizes, throwing them point downwards on the floor in front of him, then, reaching to the small of his back and bringing out two engraved rectangular slates, he placed these more carefully on the ground, almost reverently.

Vark added a short curved sword to the pile, unstrapping it from the underside of his forearm. Taelan contributed his ritual knife, a small yellow crystal a large grey metal ingot, and after some awkward squirming under the others gaze, his ring. The jewel lost its lustre after leaving Taelan's finger, the ruby ceasing to glow no longer giving out the light it did when attached to Taelan.

Nine looked over the supplies, sighing, "Not much." He said, nudging Vark's sword with his toe.

"Enough." Replied Vark, stepping down from the stone where he was seated. He saw several items of interest, and pointed at the ingot, the surface shining oddly, like a bird's wing in sunlight, colours shifting on it. "What metal is that?" he asked.

"Swiped it from Saruman," replied Taelan, "It looked interesting so I took it when his back was turned, then showed it to one of the forge hands, before I met you, they fell over themselves then told me it was some incredibly valuable metal, called Mithril."

Nine immediately seized the bar, turning it over in his hand, the spy then picked up a long and particularly pointy dagger from their stash on the floor. He bashed them together a few times, then looked at the results. "It's better than our Mithril." He finally remarked, pointing out the new scratches on the dagger, but the lack of any marks on the ingot. "That was one of my best daggers, had it for years, never seen anything scratch it before."

Taelan looked moderately interested at this stunning revelation, "It only comes from one place in the world at the moment, which means that whoever controls a former dwarven stronghold called Moria has access to a mineral ten times more valuable than gold."

"Noted." Vark said, he did not think this would be particularly noteworthy at the moment, and continued to the next item. He had noticed the small crystal Taelan had contributed, and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Taelan watched him, then began to explain its functions:

"Again, swiped that from Saruman," he explained, "apparently he defeated another wizard and took his staff, of which that was a part. I assume a Wizards Staff in this world is more important than a staff in ours, at least, something more significant than just magical foci. He tried to get me to use the thing, and it felt..." the elf paused, looking uncomfortable, "it felt wrong, like putting on clothes that were the wrong size."

Nine looked impatient at this theoretical discussion, and made his displeasure known. "And? Then what?" he asked, indicating the crystal, "And how does that factor into it?

"The staff exploded." Replied Taelan lifting his bandaged hand, he reached forward and snatched the yellow rock from Vark. Upon contact with his hand it started glowing, emitting a soft golden light in the shade of the trees. "And this." He said, wiggling the crystal, indicating its function. "It glows when I touch it."

Nine reached out, taking it from him, it stopped glowing. He touched Taelan's hand to it, it glowed. This process was repeated a few times, and it was concluded that the stone must be in direct contact with Taelan's skin to work, but that he could, for want of a better word, 'charge it up' so that it would keep glowing for a while.

"Wonderful." Remarked Nine flippantly, tossing the crystal back to Taelan, "We have a light source, that will be useful for when we run out of sun."

Vark chucked, whilst Taelan glared at him, cradling the rock protectively. "What's this about explosions?" the Orc reminded the others.

"Oh, yes, forgot about that," replied Taelan, settling down on the grass as he told his story. "So, this other wizard was defeated and I think Saruman assumed I was the same sort of creature he was-"

"Wait, what?" interrupted Nine, "I thought he was human!?"

Vark shook his head at this, "No, he was some kind of naturally magical species, think, a whole race of arcane-attuned people. Like the Highborne before the Shattering."

Taelan nodded at the Orc's explanation, "Exactly, I believe they use their staffs to focus the latent energy around them , which is why the defeated wizard's reacted so unfavourably to me. Also, they seemed, or at least Saruman did, to have their power _given_ to them, rather than naturally acquiring them."

Nine put his head in his hands, "I thought you said they were a 'naturally magical race'?" he asked, running his fingers through his hair.

"I felt it too." Said the normally taciturn Vark, speaking for the second time in the discussion, "Saruman was certainly capable of magic, in the same way that anyone who manipulates energy is capable of magic, but it was like a magical crutch, it felt, and I agree with Taelan here, unnatural, so I don't doubt that anything he was using wouldn't work for him."

Nine thought this was far too complicated for him, his standard modus operandi being 'what is it, how do you kill it, how much are you paying me to do so?' and felt instead that he wanted something to eat soon. His train of thought all but careering off the rails into a pantry or similar food repository.

"We're getting side-tracked, lets finish the briefing, and then we can have a break." He said, turning to Taelan, "What did Saruman say to you after we left?" he asked.

Taelan launched into another story, describing Saruman's interrogation about his origins and purposes, occasionally interrupted by either of his companions, interjecting with a question of clarification. A point of contention came up at the mention of 'Dökkálfar'.

"Now where have I heard that before?" asked Nine, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"Deep elves." Replied Taelan, waving him off, "It's the name the High Elves gave to the Kaldorei, especially the ones that inhabited the druidic barrows in Ashenvale, I assumed Saruman wouldn't be able to make any assumptions toward out origins, so I made something up. He then went off on some rant about lamps and shadows."

Vark looked amused at this, knowing exactly what Taelan was talking about because of his previous connection with the planet, but not feeling the need to say anything, as it was largely irrelevant.

"And these." Said Nine finally, picking up the engraved rectangles of metal, "Are my last portal devices."

Vark looked immediately distrustful at this, obviously he still held some grudge against the magic that stranded them on Middle Earth.

Taelan however looked at them almost hungrily. He reached out for them, fingers curling, until Nine put them down again. The elf shook his head, clearing it, his vision coming back into focus.

"Leave them." Vark commanded, "We can work out what to do with them later. The Orc then squatted down in the dirt, and explained about the military functions of Isengard, as far as he had observed during their brief stay there, using one of Nine's knives to draw in the ground.

"Here we have what Lurtz called the 'Wizard's Vale'," he explained, drawing two parallel lines in the dirt. "In the north is the Ring of Isengard," a circle was added to the top of the lines, "and in the middle the tower of Orthanc," Taelan's crystal was placed in the middle of the circle. He drew a erratic curved line along the side of the diagram, "and this is-"

"A snake?" inquired Taelan, studying the map dutifully.

"A river." Replied Vark, an annoyed look on his face. "The Isen, now running much more slowly than it normally does, Saruman seems to have dammed it or is in some other way drawing from it. Lurtz informs us that he's put up water wheels and various other industrial devices along the bank to divert it." Vark stabbed the knife into the dirt further down along the river, "This is the Ford of Isen, the only way into Isengard from the East, and therefore of large strategic value, the Rohirrim, who live on the other side don't go there, for some meaningless unexplained reason, but Lurtz suspects Saruman will move to secure it sooner or later." He then pointed to an area south of Isengard "We're round there somewhere." Using his finger to vaguely indicate their area.

"What is the standing strength of their army?" asked Nine, memorising the 'map' Vark had drawn out.

"Saruman is, for want of a better word, 'growing' orcs." Replied Vark, seeing the look of confusion on Nine's face he continued, "Lurtz took me down to a set of pits, in each one there was at least one hundred Uruk-hai, which we know are Saruman's own breed, and superior is size and strength to the other types of orc here, now, Saruman appears to have been planning this war for a least two decades, perhaps more, he puts the young Uruks in these pits which have this odd gloopy substance that grows over their bodies and makes them in turn grow faster, this cocoons the Uruks and smaller breeds watch over them while they grow. Therefore, Lurtz, who was the first to come out of his 'pod' is only about a year old, technically."

Taelan whistled appreciatively, thinking about the potential uses for a method of army production like that.

"Which," Vark continued, "leads me to believe that there are…_breeding quarters_ somewhere. However, I have seen no female orcs here, nor has Lurtz mentioned any. So I assume Saruman has them locked away." He spat, disgusted.

Even Nine, far from the most scrupulous individual, looked uneasy at the suggestion.

Vark paused for a moment, contemplating the map again, "At the moment there is about eight hundred Uruk-hai alive, the firstborn of their race. Lurtz commands them, and a scout company has been formed that he has direct command over, the rest are the guard force of Orthanc, and seemingly quite loyal to Saruman. Apparently," said a grinning Vark with a quick look toward Nine, "he feeds them man-flesh, and they are quite taken with it."

Nine was now looking distinctly uncomfortable, Taelan meanwhile was giggling to himself, given that he regularly practiced blood magic he did not find the idea of cannibalism particularly repulsive.

"The next batch of Uruk-hai will bring the strength up to ten thousand, that will be the Host of Isengard, fifteen years in the making, Lurtz has gleaned from Saruman that the production can be sped up, and the next two armies have similar numbers, each batch taking as little as a year to grow, but there are certain side effects, depending on the growth time." Vark held up a hand to forestall questions, "I don't know what they are, Lurtz wouldn't tell me, but I want Taelan to have a look at them, see what kind they are." He looked to the elf, recovered from his amusement.

Taelan nodded. Vark repeated the gesture and continued.

"An unknown number of wolf riders." Said Vark, gazing around the clearing at the wargs milling about, "Their hierarchy is more tribal, and they live in the mountains, reinforcements may come, or they may not, but this is what we have at the moment. Finally, the Dunlendings, again, tribal structure, an alliance has yet to be formally recognised, but their chief is coming to Isengard shortly to cement it." Vark sat back, having finished his explanation he now wanted his friend's opinions.

"Well," mused Nine, "The tribal orcs seem to be the ones you need to reach out to."

"How so?" asked Taelan.

"The Uruk-hai will follow anyone that feeds them, they have no purpose but to obey, that seems to be what they were bred to do." Replied Nine, "I watched you talking to Lurtz, he seems reasonably intelligent but I could tell he didn't know what to think of you. Then you have the Dunlendings, in my skulking about I picked up a few things about them as well, pretty much all they want is in Rohan, so they'll follow anyone to give them a means to get back the lands that were 'stolen'" Nine using hand gestures to display his opinion on _that_. "If you can get all three forces to work together you can win easily, judging by what I've heard Rohan has, although I doubt the veracity of my source."

Although Taelan didn't know what the word 'veracity' meant, he did notice an odd turn of phrase that Nine used, "You make it sound like you won't be there." He asked.

"He's not." Broke in Vark.

Nine nodded, "I'm a spy, Vark will no doubt deploy me somewhere, where I can blend in, where I can be of most use in the immediate operation area."

"So?" asked Taelan, "In other words, Rohan?"

Vark nodded, on their flight from Isengard Vark had been contemplating the uses for their 'assets' as Nine had called them, Nine was one such asset, infinitely more valuable out in the world doing his job than stuck in Isengard. Therefore, Vark had decided that on the earliest opportunity Nine would infiltrate Rohan. He explained his reasoning to the others.

"I can't guarantee you reinforcements, or even assistance, not that far out." He said.

"And I," replied Nine, "can't guarantee you regular information, not without a proper network."

"Your objective is infiltration, nothing else, no targets of opportunity, in fact, kill only to keep your cover." Reiterated Vark, looking the spy in the eye.

Nine nodded passively, gathered up his weapons, and withdrew from the group, making his own plans, he sat against a tree, his brown warg joining him some time later.

Vark and Taelan sat in silence, their thoughts their own, propped against the standing stone at the centre of the clearing. They saw no reason to speak, having had only each other to talk to mostly for two years, they knew the others moods well, and neither was feeling particularly verbose. Taelan absentmindedly fiddled with the much worn hem of his robes, promising himself he would become better apparelled when they took Isengard. Vark on the other hand was ripping large strips from his shirt, and binding them around his arms and fists, he sat bare chested, green skin rippling with the movement of his muscles, surprisingly few scars, owing mainly to Vark fighting using _strategy_, rather than charging head on at the enemy, axe aloft, war cry on his lips.

Although he occasionally did that too, after all, if the tactic didn't work, it wouldn't be used would it?

Happy with his new gauntlets, Vark relaxed back, momentarily forgetting that rock can be cold when in shade, and jerking forward with a hiss, Taelan chucked at him, and Vark went to sit round the other side of the rock, leaning back against it, after checking it had been sufficiently warmed by the sun.

"When do we set off?" called Taelan, his voice muffled slightly by the acoustics of the clearing.

"Dusk," replied Vark, "I want to be Lord of Orthanc by tomorrow morning."

A suspicious short laugh sprang from Taelan's direction, "Another thing I'd forgotten," he smirked, "Did you ever find out what they were calling you?"

Vark grimaced at that question, there was another uncomfortable thing to contemplate, "Yes." He snapped harshly back.

"And it was?" asked the sly voice on the other side of the rock.

Vark mumbled something under his breath, shifting his form to a more comfortable position laid out on the rock.

"What was that? I couldn't quite hear you." asked Taelan again.

Vark sighed, then finally answered more loudly. "Warchief." He said, "That was what they were calling me."

"Oh really?" drawled Taelan slowly, leaving no doubt in Vark's mind that the elf had known perfectly well what 'Nar-Zhâda' actually meant. "Well I'm sure Thrall won't mind."

**oO oOo Oo**

"Taelan, how can we understand each other?" asked a thoughtful Nine as he rode beside his friend, their mounts picking their way over tree roots.

Taelan looked at him oddly, "You're speaking Common aren't you?" he asked quizzically.

Nine nodded.

"Well then." Replied Taelan, giving a 'that explains it' gesture, bringing his hand out palm upwards.

"Yes, but then how do we talk to the 'natives'?" the spy asked.

"Ah," responded Taelan, "I see what you mean, well as Vark explained it when we first met, Water has something to do with it, apparently it's the basis of language."

Nine wasn't sure he understood that, and put it down to 'A Wizard did it'.

Taelan continued his lecture, "When I first met Vark, I only spoke Thalassian, that being the only language I knew, however, he was instantly able to talk to me, see if you understand this, _Ano Alah'ni Shari'adune Da Osa."_ The last part of the phrase was spoken with an odd accent, and Nine felt the sound resonate around his head.

"What did you do then?" asked Nine.

"I spoke in Thalassian, but intentionally, rather than just _talking_ to you." Replied Taelan.

"So, if I understand correctly, when we came here something happened to us so that we understand anyone talking to us?" he asked, "Regardless of language?"

Taelan nodded, "Effectively. I think it's something to do with this connection with the planet we've acquired. Yours is going to be weaker because you're not naturally magical, unlike Vark or I, we get a power boost with our spells, makes using the elements incredible easy, observe." Taelan sat back in his seat, then held out his hands again, he pressed them together, palms facing each other, then slowly drew them apart, a small flame leapt into existence between them and grew in size to about an apple's diameter, Taelan casually passed his fire ball between his hands, throwing it up and down as he did so.

Nine sat amazed, as a matter of course he _knew_ that something so controlled like that just was not possible. Not unless the practitioner was an Archmage anyway. He watched as Taelan eventually became bored, and snuffed out the flame, turning toward Nine again.

"I'm not sure of my theories yet, I need to talk with Vark first, but I have my own ideas about why." He said, smirking at the look on the human's face.

"And how." Replied Nine, gradually shaking off his amazement.

Taelan nodded his head in acquiescence, "Whilst I can do that, you might have some more esoteric abilities, do some meditation or something, might help you discover them," at Nine's look of distaste at this suggestion he continued, "Alternatively you could just keep wandering about as you have so far, and accidently discover them?"

Nine shrugged, no longer interested in the conversation he directed Charlie away from Taelan, searching for his errant flock, he was pleased to know he might have some interesting new technique to try out, that would distract him from the monotony of his various illegal pursuits for a while.

**OOO ooo OOO**

Said flock were currently loitering around a completely different clearing, about half a mile away from the others, they had attempted to direct their transportation with varying degrees of success, and come eventually to their present location, and were sitting down, eating some berries they had picked on their way.

The tallest, a youth called Morac, sat on a root of a beach tree, his leg swinging below him, tracing the scar that ran down his neck, it had become somewhat of a habit since he got it, he didn't think it had healed properly, and it sometimes felt like the skin was too tight and limited the movement of his neck. He supposed there was nothing he could do about it, unless he were willing to open the wound again to let it heal properly, and he was _not_ willing to go digging about in his neck with a knife. Or trust anyone else to do it for that matter.

Then next oldest was another human, Loras, currently clutched in the arms of his sleeping surrogate sister, the boy was fairly apprehensive, having been led out of their orphanage under the pretence of being a servant to a visiting lord, they had then been loaded up onto giant wolves and bundled away, Loras now had no idea where they were, but assumed that the wolves would let them know when it was time to leave. He remembered his new master's face, he looked very cruel, sneering, and he thought his eyes were glowing, and from the other man's reactions, his new master had released the wolves. This was worrying. Lehah moved beside him, clinging to his shirt, she had not had a good night, her wolf stopped to eat one of the guards at the gate, Loras knew that must not have been nice to watch. He wondered what she was dreaming about.

Snaga watched the others. He was crouching, eating a rabbit his warg had caught for him, he didn't have a fire, but he had eaten rat before, and this was actually better. He had quickly made friends with the warg, and was trying to think of a name for it, but was so far unsuccessful. It was a mangy animal, probably the runt of the litter, just like Snaga then. He patted it on the head, and offered it a piece of the rabbit. The goblin sat, contemplating his so far short life. All in all, recent events had been one of the most interesting parts so far. He sat back, a contented smile on his face, running his long fingered hand over the mane of his mount.

**ooooooOOooooooOOoOOooooooOOo ooooo**

Nine felt a hand on his shoulder, he turned to see a hooded face looking at him, eyes shining from below the brow of the hood, the figure shook its head and motioned for Nine to stay back. Nine followed the elf back, waiting for him to explain.

"Don't, I'll talk to him about it soon; just keep them out of sight for the moment." Taelan said, whispering, wary of Vark overhearing them.

Nine gave him a questioning look, peering behind Taelan at the campfire where they had made their bivouac; Vark was sitting there, back propped against Blackbite, warming himself by the fire. The sun was beginning to set, and during their day they had moved northwards, up towards Isengard again, this was the first stop of the day, and Vark had mentioned resting the wargs before they reached their destination.

"There are many things you do not know about him." Said Taelan, an odd look on his face, something…remorseful. "I know him well, better than anyone, even his father."

Nine didn't see what this had to do with introducing his new followers. After all, they were there to serve, surely they could help out in some way, preparations or other tasks to complete. He looked over his shoulder to Vark, who sat unmoving against his warg. Nine had noticed that Vark seemed to have formed a much deeper bond between himself and his animal, much deeper than Nine himself had anyway. He shot Taelan another look, eyebrows raised.

Taelan looked reluctant, "There was an…unfortunate incident. Being around children brings back the bad memories. So let me talk to him about our newest companions first." Seeing Nine expectant look he sighed, and continued. "As I understand it his father sent him to live with an uncle whilst he was out campaigning, a few months passed and everything was fine, then one day he was out buying supplies in Orgrimmar, when he got back he found the uncle dead and the other children working on the farm that he had befriended missing." Taelan paused for breath, looked nervously back at the campfire, "Guards arrived, traced it to a Burning Blade encampment, Skull Rock, but couldn't do anything because they didn't have enough men."

"What happened?" asked Nine quickly.

"Two days later six graves appeared on the boundary of the farm, no one knows if there are bodies under the head stones, guards didn't care enough to check, they assumed that the graves were empty."

"Were they?" asked Nine quietly, remembering the friends he himself had buried over the years.

"Spirits reside where their bodies do as a rule, Vark visits the graves occasionally, I followed him there once, saw him sitting chatting to them. All violent deaths, but, then you ask, 'how did the bodies get there?'" said Taelan, leading the human through the conversation.

"Well how did they?" hissed Nine, glancing again at the campfire.

"Vark's father was Kor'kron, bodyguard of the Warchief," explained Taelan, "Vark's father begged the Warchief for leave to find his brother's killers, and when the group arrived to cleanse the cave they found it already done."

Nine's eyes widened, "Vark killed them?" he asked, looking slightly frantic.

"In all probability, yes." Responded a serious Taelan. "That's at least thirty fel orcs, demons and warlocks, and he handled it by himself, with help from the spirits. They saw a vessel and a cause, and used them to make their will known. The Warchief hushed it up, and Vark got sent away to shaman school, I met him as he came out."

"How old was he?" questioned Nine.

"Twelve." Replied Taelan, "He's been training to make himself stronger ever since, he worries about not being able to save people. Which is why you can't tell him about those children you brought along till I talk to him about it! They will distract him on the eve of our greatest confrontation since our arrival, and distractions breed mistakes." The elf said wisely.

Nine warily turned toward the fire. He had heard stories from veterans of the First War, stories of empowered orcs, eyes aglow, tearing through armoured formations like tissue paper, so could well believe that even a young orc could kill that many, with the strength of the elements on his side.

**OOooooooooooOO**

A thin black rope snaked down the rock face, Vark glanced upwards, seeing a dark figure silhouetted against the night sky, blocking out a small patch of sky. He couldn't actually see the figure, more a figure shaped patch of darkness, but he knew Nine was up there, and for once, trusted him. He grasped the rope, putting a foot on the rock, he slowly pulled himself upwards. The cloth on his hands providing more grip than normal, the cold wind whipping at the ragged leather skirt and trousers he was wearing. The Orc pulled himself up the wall, one hand at a time, arms burning at the exertion, but he ignored it. Pain was all in the mind, and powerful as it was, he would endure it.

He realised now their flight had been dishonourable. A real Orc would have confronted the old Wizard, and faced him in single combat. Not ran like a coward, a thief to steal away into the wilderness after a successful heist. But, the young shaman realised he also had to balance the demands of his oath to Blackbite's folk. That oath was now fulfilled, the wargs were free, their tormentors dead and devoured. Their people avenged. But the victory was not complete; the final objective in their mission lay in the dark tower ahead. Jutting out from the plain of Isengard, a sharp fang, crowned in spikes, banners fluttering in the wind, wreathed in the smoke from the fires of Industry.

Vark hauled himself over the parapet, landing on the balls of his feet, crouched, hand on the black knife at his back, half drawn, prepared for the alarm to be sounded, for men to come running to kill the intruders. A hand tapped his shoulder, Vark turned, seeing Nine struggling with the body of a guard, he grabbed it by the tunic, sneering at the white hand branded over the chest, then hefted it over the rampart, listening for a few seconds while it fell the hundred foot drop. A crunch echoed softly from below, and the corpse was dragged away by a warg, Vark felt two tugs on the rope, and, winding it around his arm, began hauling it up, one foot braced against the wall, Nine paced anxiously behind him, dagger drawn, and finally, after what seemed like an inordinately long time, Taelan's blonde hair emerged, Vark grabbed him and set hi down, somewhat ruffled but otherwise fine.

"Stage Two." Whispered Nine, taking the rope from Vark, he abseiled downwards, rope paying out behind him, feet scuffling on the wall as the spy made each successive leap backwards and downwards. Vark took the rope again, feeling the now familiar tug he made his own descent, considerably less graceful than Nine, but manageable. He thudded down at the bottom, staggering slightly as he dropped the last few feet, the rope only barely being long enough. He gave his own tug, and felt the thin cord loosen, dropping quickly in a pile. He wrapped it up, winding it over a shoulder and under his arm, the coil resting diagonally across his chest. He glanced upwards, the clouds mercifully shrouding the full moon. He would have blessed a full moon, on any other night, now the need was for stealth, even as dishonourable as it was. Skulking like rats. As he gazed skywards he heard a rustling of cloth, then, heard a whistling sound, Vark kept looking up, creeping forward slowly, he followed Nine, his hand never straying from the knife at his belt.

Something glided overhead, and another figure dropped into a roll as they hit the ground. Vark darted to it. The figure stood, then released a light white feather from its hand, which drifted toward the ground, coming to rest on the grass.

"Stage Three." Taelan hissed, drawing his cowl further over his eyes, and checking his ritual knife in its sheath. Vark and Nine both nodded once to him. Faces set. They crept forward, wraiths in the shadows, skirting around the vents in the ground, using the foul smelling vapours to mask their movements. Three pits passed without incident, the three sprinting between them, one covering the other, heads bent low, at the fourth pit they found a trio of smallish goblins. Bowlegged and squint eyed, they were tossing small stones into the pit. Nine tapped the others, signalling a stop. The assassin tapped his knife hilt, then held up three fingers, stabbing them toward the group. The others nodded, and Vark drew his own knife. They crept forward, and in the brief exposed moonlight three arms rose, and seconds later three daggers fell in harmony, one a slender poniard, a matte appearance to keep it from shining in the darkness, one a larger and cruder, but not less effective serrated iron knife, and one a broad blade, slightly curved, a heavy hilt of bronze. The goblins fell dead, black blood oozing from their necks, and the three wraiths continued on, the largest hauling the bodies over the edge of the pit, dropping them into the furnaces below, then jogging after the others.

They soon reached the black tower itself. Orthanc, the Cunning Mind of Isengard, formerly a stronghold and bulwark of Gondor, now subverted by the Wizard Saruman, the white tree and seven stars replaced by a white hand, its fingernails red with blood.

Vark caught a glow from the balcony above, he subtly indicated it to Nine, the human looked upwards, contemplating the climb, he pointed to the others, then made a cutting gesture with his hand whilst shaking his head. Vark understood, he was not to climb the tower, this suited him fine, he put his back against the stone, his hands cupped, Nine nodded to him, then stepped back, taking a run up, he sprinted forwards, Vark hurling him into the air, using the leverage and speed on the run to force the man against gravity. Nine soared a good twenty feet, grasping a ledge, then began free climbing up the tower, traversing on the harder parts, using the natural architecture to aid in his ascent. Vark nudged the elf next to him, never taking his eyes off the climber. "Stage Four."

Vark watched for half an hour, hidden in the shadows at the base of the tower, his neck craning backwards to watch his accomplice climb. He was little more than a vague impression of a person now, dark clothing blending perfectly to the dark obsidian of the tower. The moon appeared several more times during the time, each occurrence marked a freeze from Nine, stopping suddenly in whatever position he happened to be in. One particularly skilful stop happened on the last part of Nine's ascent, he hung one handed, attempting to find power and speed to swing across a gap, finding purchase on a smooth ledge, an angle between a balcony's awning and the wall, but at that moment the moon peered through a gap in the clouds, Nine froze, his toes just finding the ledge, his hand still attached to the previous handhold, his body braced, stretched out, his abdominal muscles working far past overtime to maintain his position. But luckily, before the strain became too much, the moon faded once again, and Nine flopped onto the ledge. He stopped there for several minutes, resting before the final push. Then jumping and twisting to catch another ledge, he continued upwards.

The glowing balcony was in sight, Vark could see Nine pull himself up by the railing, not coming all the way up, but perching on the edge, looking inwards. He made a complete survey, all the while perching on the edge, then, slowly and carefully, made his way back down. The descent was surprisingly quicker than the ascent, possibly owing to the new familiarity with the climb, or to the fact that gravity was not on Nine's side. He finally dropped lightly onto the ground, breathing heavily but quietly, hands on his knees, legs shaking slightly.

"He's in that room, like we thought." Hissed Nine after a few shaky breaths, "the room to the right of the throne room, fourth floor I think." Nine shook his head to clear it, the cool air scorching his lungs, he sighed, taking more deep, but steadier breaths, and straightened up. "Facing away from the doors, which were open, the glow is coming from a ball on a pedestal, he has his hand over it." Nine shuddered, "There was a fiery eye there, I couldn't move for a moment, good thing I had a grip or I would have fallen. I don't know what it was, but it scared me."

Vark thought the human looked in need to a stiff drink, but the Orc had no explanation for the fiery eye, or for the fear of the normally unflappable cold-blooded killer in front of him.

"We've got to get up there." Taelan added, speaking softly, "And quickly, we have no idea what he's doing but by the sound of it, whatever he's up to is bad news for us."

"There's an understatement." Muttered Nine.

"Come." Commanded Vark, this would end tonight.

The three ghosted around the tower, moving forty five degrees around the circumference, coming to the steps on the door, Nine peered round, then swiftly stepped back. "It's our old friend the gate guard," he whispered, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, "looks like he's been promoted, from the look of the contingent he's got at the moment."

"How many?" asked Vark, keeping behind the wall, the temptation to look around it and spring out upon the helpless humans building slowly.

"Ten or so, we can take them, but not quietly." Nine replied.

"I can." Came a soft voice from behind both of them. Taelan stepped forward, "They won't stay down for long, but long enough." He said. Vark nodded, Nine raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Taelan stood, waiting, his companions drawing their weapons. The elf's eyes began to glow behind their lids; the light piercing through the skin, a forceful purple glow came from his hands as well. The elf suddenly darted out, hand held out, eyes wide.

The guards turned quickly, hands on their weapons, one drew breath to shout but before he could complete his breath Taelan pointed at the group. Snarling at them, his hair seemed to float around his shoulders, his skin eerily white. "Fear!" he hissed, hand clawing, the light in his eyes flaring. The guards were struck down, writing and crawling on the floor, Nine and Vark darted forward, knives drawn, and began ruthlessly slashing the throats of the fallen soldiers, the first being the guard captain who had received them previously at the gate. Eventually the soldiers were all dead, and the group proceeded wearily toward the door, Taelan panting at the exertion of psychically attacking so many individuals.

They started up the tower, padding softly on felt shoes they had scrounged and sowed from Taelan's cloak, Vark paused by a weapons bracket, several ceremonial and formal weapons held there; Vark took a large two handed battleaxe, wide silver blades on either side, the haft braced with leather bindings. The Orc was very pleased with his new weapon, it was much more orcly than a knife he thought. They reached the landing, then kept going, farther up, till they reached the level with the throne room, the tall black chair dominating a corner, the rest of the room given over to an audience chamber of sorts. Nine skirted round the corner, poking his head through the door to the Palantír Room. The doors were wide open, not a particularly clever move thought Vark, but it worked to their advantage.

Saruman stood within, chanting, hand over the glowing ball, the fiery eye showing slightly under his arm, his fingers curled and grasped, long nails playing over the surface of the ball. The three stepped out into the chamber, Vark raising his axe.

Then, abruptly, the chanting stopped, and the White Wizard whirled around, grasping his staff, he held it across his body in a guard position. "So my friends." He said, his voice once again with its odd melody, persuading the listener as to the speakers good intentions. "You have returned."

Vark's eyes darted around the room, the baleful light of the Eye bathing the room in a dark red, flickering and shifting like a fire. Nine stood on his left, hand palming a knife, the tip peeking out from between his fingers, Taelan on his right, hands ready, ritual dagger loosely held in one, the other ready for a magical attack.

"It seems that you have betrayed me, oh 'Messengers of Mordor'" said the voice, mockingly. "The Dark Lord Sauron tells me that-"

"Enough talk!" yelled Nine, flinging his knife under arm, the blade flying tip first toward the Wizard who barely dodged. Vark leapt forward with a cry, axe held high, blood singing in his ears. As he ran Taelan aimed a burst of fire from his hand, but the Wizard brought his staff around, absorbing the fire with the white jewel at the top of the black stick. Vark swung his axe down, Nine executing a forward roll to the right of the Wizard after a flash of light scorched his cheek as it flew past. The Wizard raised his staff, a white bubble of energy shining around him, Vark's axe glancing off it, jarring his arm at the arrested motion. Taelan renewed his assault, sending lightening toward the Wizard, but it rebounded of the white shield, striking a lamp, sending boiling oil all around the room, much of it splashing on Taelan who screamed at the burning substance coating him.

The Wizard dropped his staff downwards, catching Vark across the chest with one of the sharp points, luckily he leant backwards, so only received a shallow wound, but Nine struck from behind, and jammed a knife into Saruman's shoulder, aiming for the neck, but missing. The Wizard staggered forward, lashing out with a hand, sending Nine flying at a wall with a thunderclap, he hit it and bounced off with a thud, his weapons disarrayed and clanking on the floor. Nine attempted to push himself off the floor, but could not move his left side, he took out another knife and threw it at the Wizard, now contending with Vark's scavenged axe, it pin wheeled through the air, whistling, the Wizard ducked just in time, and the dagger clattered off the opposite wall. However, the miss brought time for Vark, who hooked the black staff on the underside of his axe, wrenching it away from Saruman, who floundered, the battle taking its toll on his elderly body.

Taelan ran back towards the room, sending another wave of ice in the Wizard's direction, catching an arm, the robes freezing immediately, the rest of the hand covered in frost, preventing its movement, but Saruman was still active, if diminished, he intoned a Word of Command, spelling the doors shut before Taelan could reach them, he vainly tried to open them by force, but could not. Vark saw that he must end the battle quickly, his companions being either unable to help, or neutralised, in the case of Nine, who had passed out, Vark noticed blood forming a pool by the man's head.

Saruman looked unsure now, his eyes narrowed in pain, he was trying somewhat unsuccessfully to re-heat his hand, thawing out the ice that prevented the movement, he looked up, seeing the huge, hulking green Orc in front of him, Vark bared his teeth and rushed forward again, but the old man dodged, robes spinning, swirling around him, the Wizard extended his hand over the ball in the middle of the room again, placing it fully on the rounded glass this time.

"MY LORD!" he screeched in desperation, "SEND-" but Saruman could not say anything more to his master, as Vark's silver axe descended on him, hacking his hand away at the wrist, the ball flaring, actual heat emanating from it, scorching the severed hand black. Saruman reeled back, meaning that Vark's following strike landed on his head at an angle, tearing a portion of his scalp away, but not beheading him as Vark had planned to. The Wizard collapsed to the floor, one hand blackened with frostbite, the other absent, the stump squirting blood with each beat of the Wizards heart. His shoulder too was bleeding, but not as strongly as Vark had believed the wound would merit, the knife being stopped somewhat by the thick robes the Wizard wore.

As Saruman lay bleeding, his enchantments faded, the doors opened in the room, Taelan rushing in, ready for battle, he took in the scene, nodded to Vark, then went over to Nine, rolling him over, he checked over the spy's wounds, and finding only the head wound to merit immediate attention, used a strip of his shirt to make a bandage.

The fiery eye narrowed, the severed hand still resting on it, held there, in defiance of gravity, the eye blazed once more, incinerating the hand, ash tumbling onto the pedestal and floor, then the eye faded, the stone returning to its normal state, the cloudy depths seeming to suck in light, whilst tiny stars within reflecting it.

Taelan propped Nine against the wall, bandage secure in place, then returned to Vark's side, the burns from the oil were fresh, but only stung now, a throbbing pain, rather than the sharp one before. He looked down at the remains of Saruman the Wise. It was a pitiful sight really, for one held in such high esteem, the Wizard's robes were torn and burned, his front soaked with blood, his white hair torn away and his beard singed, pinned under his cradled limb.

However, Taelan was not a pitying person, he assumed Vark had not ended the creature's misery for a reason, and made it his duty to keep the Wizard alive. Therefore, the elf knelt down, and gently taking the arm, he laid his own hand over the stump, then smiling horribly, his lips taking on that oh so familiar cruel twist, he pushed power into his ring, the Wizard screamed as his arm was cauterised, and finally passed out cold, whimpering pathetically in his unconsciousness.

Vark turned from the scene, fully knowing his friend's capacity for malice upon his captured enemies; he had never discouraged it, as it was the right of the conqueror to do whatever he so pleases to the conquered, but sometimes the brutality made him uneasy. No matter, he would address it at a later date. Their battle was won, and it was an honourable victory, Vark chased his doubts away, finding himself rather enjoying the sight of his first real enemy, his house and schemes, not to mention his hand, all in ruin. But the circumstances of the Victory worried him, only with beneficial odds, and a distraction were they able to defeat the White Wizard, and Vark was uneasy.

Nine staggered over to them, clinging onto Vark's arm for support, still woozy from the blow to his head, he looked down at Saruman, then spat to the side, blood flecked phlegm landing on the floor. "Now?" he asked hoarsely.

Vark only smiled at that, "You must stay here, as you are the most injured amongst us. Watch him, and if his condition changes for the worst, call me, and I will heal him. No matter how unpleasant an activity."

"Thought you wanted him dead?" asked the still hoarse Nine, coughing again.

"I did, but then I thought we might interrogate him." Replied Vark looking specifically at Taelan now, who was smiling rather unsettlingly at the mention of 'interrogation'. Nine accepted his duty, and slumped against a wall, letting out a pained breath, one leg propped up, the other stretched, he massaged his ribs, wincing slightly at each one.

Vark frowned, broken ribs could be dangerous if left untreated, he knew little of the restorative arts of Shamanism, but decided he would try and heal his friend if he could, he knelt and put his hand on Nine's chest, willing the bones to knit back together, Nine's breathing slowed, and became less laboured, and Vark stood, moving swiftly out of the room, waving off Nine's thanks.

Taelan paused for a moment, and then gingerly stepped over Saruman's staff, "Don't touch the staff." He called over his shoulder on his way out. Nine nodded, and settled down more comfortably, eager to continue healing from being flung against a wall. The door closed, and Nine kept watch, testing the growth of his new ribs ever so often.

**oOOoooOOo**

Lurtz rushed up the staircase, his squad, First of the First Company following on his heels, the sounds of battle had been heard by one of the servants, and the entire Tower had been sealed off, the doors closing by themselves, one unfortunate had been caught between two, and would have to be mopped up later, but Lurtz was not concerned with that, there were enemies at hand!

They had run in as soon as the doors had opened, the alarm was raised some time ago, when three goblins tumbled down into the main foundry, landing in a vat of molten steel, being melted instantly, then it was discovered that one of the sentries was missing from the south wall, Lurtz had been going to investigate when the battle of the Tower had started.

"Who's Sharkey fightin'?" asked a voice from behind him, it was Uglúk, his second in command, he ignored the question, powering up the steps. They came to the Wizard's throne room, Lurtz remember the audience chamber, despite only having been there a few times, and he knew that there could be any number of enemies inside, as it was quite large. He readied himself, checked that his troop was behind him, then shoulder barged the door open, surprised by the lack of resistance. He staggered up, sword ready, but the sight that greeted him shocked him.

Upon the throne sat not Saruman. But the Nar-Zhâda, he was bloodied and fierce looking, fangs bared, blood running down his face, making it look like he had eaten someone recently, which, Lurtz admitted, was more than likely.

"Keel before your Warchielf!" yelled a voice, Lurtz switched his focus to a figure standing next to the 'Warchief' it was the bloody handed elf, actually bloody handed now, his eyes looked like they were glowing, and the slight figure seemed to frighten Lurtz more than the abnormally huge Orc seated comfortably on the throne.

His troop were all growling at the pair, spoiling for a fight, one stepped forward, Thraka, he snarled at the elf, "Where's Sharkey?" he demanded, hefting a spiked mace.

Their answer was in a most definite form, the green form on the chair moved, standing, chest slowly coming forward, a new wound emphasised, the physique glistening with drying blood. He was easily the most powerful Orc any of the Uruk-hai had seen, and they believe themselves to be the most powerful. Vark stood tall, then, reaching down, he held aloft a silver battle-axe, the normally two handed weapon held easily in one hand, the blade on one side black with more dried blood.

The Uruk-hai realised what that meant and Thraka ran forward, screaming incoherently, eyes furious, Lurtz made a grab for him, but missed, the Uruk already too far away, Lurtz could only watch as the silver blade swept down, then up again, fresh black blood on the other blade.

Thraka fell to the floor in two pieces; the 'Warchief' had cleaved him in two, right shoulder to left hip. His head and arm on one side, his shoulder and legs on the other. The rest of the Uruks stepped back fearfully, eyes wide at the display of power.

"Man will no longer rule Orc." Spoke the Warchief, his voice easily carrying around the large room. Lurtz wondered at the words, he had often thought them himself. "Orc will rule Orc, I am the strongest, will any of you challenge me?" Vark asked, his eyes seeming to scour their souls, if they had one. Vark looked directly at Lurtz, and Lurtz feared him, if the Nar-Zhâda spoke the truth, he had taken Isengard with a sweep of his axe, and taken the head of Saruman with it no doubt as well. Lurtz shook his head minutely, he would not challenge, and without him, none of the rest would, he gripped his sword more tightly, and knelt, as no Orc will do willingly, unless they have been beaten in battle. Lurtz laid his sword at the Warchief's feet, bowing his head. Behind him he heard others kneel, their metal knee guards hitting the floor with a scrape, their swords clattering on the stone floor. The new Warcheif sat back in his throne, smiling, one hand on his chin, the other grasping the handle of his silver axe.

**OOooooooOooooooOO**

_And so we finally, after many trials and tribulations, get to the part where they get Saruman, this is also my longest chapter so far, at about 10,000 words, which is part of the reason it took so long to get out. But anyway, hope you all enjoyed it, this marks a turning point in the story, several new characters/perspectives are going to appear in later chapters, and the story is going to be focusing more on the effect of our 'heroes' (for want of a better word) have on the world around them, rather than just their own, private adventures. Reviews as always, are welcome._


	12. On the Misuse of Power

_New chapter, hadn't brought out one in a while so I thought I should do so, there might be another one before the 17__th__, but I doubt it, as I have exams then, they'll definitely be one soon after though._

_Oh, and I noticed I made a mistake in the dates that were established last chapter, but its fixed now. Just to let people know, the date as of the start of this chapter is the afternoon of the 4__th __of November, 3019, Third Age of Arda._

_My thanks to the various favourites and follows people have deigned to grace my story with._

_Congratulations to Gavoon for getting to beta read a story that I've been reading, however said story…temporarily escapes my mind._

_And lastly, the reviews I've got have been most useful, so thanks for them as well. I had a very nice conversation with mALX about writing style and things; go read his stories, they're good. _

_To Odin92: yes they will be going to Mordor, but much much later in the story._

_Anyway, here's the next chapter, have fun._

_Update as of Christmas Eve, just been to see the Hobbit, was….silly, especially the rabbits, but I might incorporate a few things. Enjoyable though, a lighter tone than the trilogy, more an adventure story than a fantasy setting._

_Apologies for not getting this done sooner, I have no excuse._

**Liberation**

**Chapter 12**

**By FractiousDay**

"What do you know of Orcs?" asked the figure.

The torches flickered, throwing shadows about the dark room, even though it was early morning the room was dark, it was around the middle of the tower, but all windows were shut. The Warchief had sent the rest of the Uruk-hai away, and only Lurtz remained. The elf was gone, as was the human, but still Lurtz knew he could not win in a battle between he and the huge Orc if the Orc decided to attack him.

Blue eyes flickered in the shadows, flames dancing across them, heavy brows and high cheekbones framed the eyes.

Lurtz did not know the colour of his own eyes, as he had never looked into a mirror; neither had any of his fellows told him their colour, it was not a usual point of discussion among Saruman's guards, the colour of an Uruk's eyes. But he assumed they were yellow, like those of his fellows.

Two fangs jutted out from a strong jaw, gleaming and white, thick lips curled around them.

Lurtz thought of his own fangs, smaller, only protruding out slightly to rest on his upper lip, rather than the huge tusks of Vark, _his_ were clear of the mouth, clearing the top lip and ending next to his Warcheif's nose. A short black beard, the hair wiry, grew below the green Orc's mouth, Lurtz had no beard, to the best of his knowledge none of the other Uruks did, but he had not noticed.

Strong arms, hugely muscled and an absurdly broad chest and flat stomach completed the torso of his 'Chief, there as a similarity at least, no Orc grew fat, a fat Orc was a slow Orc, and a slow Orc was a dead Orc. Many were thin and wiry, but still had muscle, but the fighting Uruk-hai were shock troops, huge and strong, man high to contend with the two kindred's, Elves and Men. Dwarves there were, but they were far away.

Lurtz drew breath to speak, remembering words of Saruman upon his awakening, they had drawn the Uruk-hai from the earth, cocooned in mucus and a thin skin that was cut open, he had killed one of the goblins who struck him, the first death at his hands. Then Saruman had taken him to the tower and he was clothed and the Wizard spoke to him a long while.

"We were elves once." He said. "But a Dark Lord tortured us in pits beneath the earth and made Orcs of them to be he servants." He looked back at the blue eyes, wondering about the response.

The larger Orc's brows were furrowed, his face showed puzzlement and a little indignation.

"Elves?" asked the Warchief, his voice flat.

Lurtz nodded, indicating his pointed ears. Saruman had given them as evidence of the Uruk-hai's origin. "Saruman taught that-"

"Saruman is a liar." Growled Vark, standing up quickly, the braziers at either side of the throne throwing his face into sharp relief, his tusks gleamed in the light. Lurtz noticed that the Warchief used the present tense, perhaps an oversight on his part. Alternatively it may have been the fact that they were talking about the Wizard's teachings in the present. The Warchief paced about the room, tugging at the short coarse beard on his chin. He walked to the window, flinging it open to see the morning sunlight streaming through it. He stood in the light, From Lurtz's position he could only see a huge figure blocking out the light. Dust swirled and Vark walked to and fro across the light, the larger Orc was clearly agitated.

He stopped finally, silhouetted against the morning sky, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light.

"We are Orcs, Born of the Red World." The Warchief declared firmly. The irrefutable fact of his statement clear from his tone. "We are the Horde, the tide that sweeps away all resistance. We are Mag'har, Greenskin, Fel. We are the Warsong, the Frostwolves, the Stormreavers and the Thunderlords!" His tone grew in volume slowly, till he was almost shouting. "He are the killers of elves, demons and men, the Orc is feared by all, for he destroys his enemies utterly. We ask no forgiveness and we demand none."

The Warchief crossed quickly to his throne, throwing himself into it. Lurtz stood amazed. Not by what he had heard, he had been awakened for three months, so could not judge if the information was true, but something in him made him want to believe. He felt something stir in his breast, a new feeling, he had felt anger, bloodlust, and amusement, but this was new, a fluttering beneath his skin that lifted him up. He had the sudden urge to kneel, and he did, his armoured knee touching the bottommost step of the dais.

"Tell me more of this Red World." He asked.

Vark sat slumped, slid down his seat, one elbow resting on the ornate arm of the chair, his hand shadowing his eyes. His outpouring had drained him, bringing back memories of his childhood, the tales of his father of the splendour and glory of the Old Horde, the First War, when the Orcs had been poised to spread across the world like a wave, the even older conflicts with ogres on Draenor before the Dark Portal. Then the newer stories, how, even now he imagined, the Warsong Offensive was thrusting into Northrend, claiming the continent in the name of the Horde.

But that was not so here, here the Horde was only a dream, a pale imitation of the might of Durotar. There were no tribes, but Vark would make new ones, there were no shamans, but Vark would show them the way of the spirits. That was as it should be. But not yet, not yet, first, Vark would have followers, but loyal equals, not slaves of fear. He sighed, then took his hand away.

"The Red World, Draenor, far in the Dark Beyond, a different world Lurtz, not this Middle Earth. But it was the home of the Orc. We lived there for centuries, we warred, but not with each other, not until the Deceiver came."

They talked for hours, Lurtz knelt in wonder as Vark spoke of Ner'zul and the Breaking of Draenor, he spoke of the enslavement to the Burning Legion, the black blood of Mannoroth and the fall into darkness of the noble orcish people. He spoke of the sack of Shattrath, the City of Light, where the warlocks had rained fire down from the sky and the lower levels were hidden in a poisonous green fog, then of betrayal by Gul'dan and the consequent Wars on Azeroth. Vark never mentioned the locations or characters by name, giving them titles, Mannoroth was simply 'The Destructor' and 'Lord of the Pit' and Lorderon was 'a Great Human Kingdom'. He gave into the story elements of mythology, and glossed over many of the battles lost and atrocities committed by the Orcish nation, yet he was creating a new nation, and would not solely build it on the backs of those who went before him, but with his own hands.

Lurtz was an eager pupil, and Vark understood then what real command was. He had previously thought it some great power to bend other's will to your own, a power greater than the simple charisma that Vark could sometimes exhibit himself. But ask he spoke, he could almost feel the dreams being formed behind his subordinate's skull. It was a good feeling, to be sure in the loyalty of another, even if some of the ways in which Vark gained loyalty were less that scrupulous. Yet it was for the good of the Horde, and Vark would see it done.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Taelan slid through a gap in the tall stone doors, into the Chamber of Saruman's Downfall.

A rather long name he thought as he crossed said room. He would have to find out what the actual purpose of the place was, otherwise they'd be constantly referring to it as 'The Room Where We Defeated Saruman' or 'The Shiny Ball Room' or any other ridiculous names.

Actually, come to think of it, the shiny ball did appear to be significant, he approached a pedestal in the middle of the room, noticing a bloody cloth was over it; no doubt Nine had covered it in prudence, given the White Wizard's final actions. It was clearly a communications device, thought the elf as he removed the cloth, but kept well back, there were deep lines cut into the pedestal, eight of them in a star, no doubt facing the four points of the compass, and the intermediary points. They were probably for positioning purposes, perhaps there was a map hereabouts to show any landmarks of cities that could be seen from the stone. He could remember (or at least the Ranger could) that Rohan, their most immediate threat, and its capital, Edoras, lay to the east, but that the realm of Gondor, the other Kingdom of Men that Vark would no doubt war with eventually, lay to the south.

But, alas-

_Wait…'Alas'?_

Taelan's internal monologue was cut off as he took note of his new vernacular, perhaps his interrogation and absorption of Briunnìn's mind had affected him more than usual. It was an old spell, used by the Orcish Warlocks of Draenor before the Breaking, they would use their mind arts to affect the wills of others, the most powerful of the Warlocks being able to create large bands of enslaved warriors to fight (and usually die) for them. Vark had told of the spell, not knowing the details but only stories of his father's days in the First War, where the spell had proved ineffective as anything bigger and stronger than an Orc tended to have a mind too strong for such invasions.

He made a note in his head to thank Rul'Thar if they ever got back to Azeroth, his indirect advice over the two years he had known Vark had been most useful.

Taelan had found that he could control some small animals with the spell, but had eventually been caught making rabbits march in formation by Vark. As he had no wish to be known as the Dark Lord Fluffy (Tremble at his Footsteps!), he had stopped using the spell. At least in its original form. The mind arts in themselves had fascinated him, such was the province of a Warlock, curses after all were only stimulated pain, and a strong enough mind could throw them off. That meant that long term spells were often useless against stronger foes, and the officer class of the Alliance had even begun to train in mental defence, or so he had heard. But Taelan wondered in the long nights he lay awake at Mo'Shan Base Camp if a strong mind could defend against a lightning attack, a raid, not to occupy and dominate, but to gain something in 'plunder' often information.

His first victim had been a human mage that Vark had been tasked with interrogating. It had taken three days, but he had finally garnered the routes of supply trains in the south of Ashenvale forest, he relayed these to Vark, who then beat the mage to a pulp for good measure. Vark had received a promotion a week later, but Taelan did not envy him, he had found something much more useful than a title.

Three weeks after the incident Taelan was cornered, his back against a tree, a hunter and his pet attacking him, the dwarf foolishly laid aside his blunderbuss, and drew a wicked looking axe, while the dwarf's snowy bear crouched to spring toward him and no doubt eat him. But just as the two ran forward, Taelan's arm sprang up on instinct, he was hoping to throw a ball of fire toward them, and then make his escape, but what happened had shocked him. Instead of fire, it was a dozen large shards of ice that materialised in front of him and shot toward his enemies. With them accompanied a strong gust of icy wind, knocking the dwarf over and causing the bear to stagger slightly. He had quickly run forward and dispatched the frozen dwarf, the bear being dead from a shard embedded in its brain, having passed first through its now ruined eye.

Vark was very pleased when he came upon the scene, congratulating Taelan on his spell work, and was even more pleased when Taelan admitted that it was not in fact _his_ spell that he had used, it seemed to be some sort of forward firing Blizzard spell, as many of the mages of the great city Dalaran used to destroy the undead army of Arthas during the Third War, but Taelan had never been taught that spell, having only a rudimentary knowledge of actual spell craft, and being more in tune with the elements, utilising raw arcane power rather than spell forms and matrixes.

And so, following the encouragement of Vark, they volunteered for interrogation duty once more. This time they had the pleasure of questioning a venerable gnomish gentleman, who was making a study of the local wildlife around the Barrens, an inexplicable place for a gnome to be found, but there it was. There Taelan found a limit to his new skill. This time he absorbed too much, sending both him, and their prisoner into a deep coma that lasted for several days. Vark covered for him in this time, telling the others than Taelan was sick, and the prisoner dead from Vark's 'attentions'.

Taelan woke though, after a week, but he did so in gnomish, and was stuck in that language for some time till Vark (laughing as he did so) knocked him out so he could sort out his memories from the prisoners. Eventually he did, and now had a significant knowledge of plants and herbs to draw from; unluckily many of them did not grow in the arid savannah of the Northern Barrens, so Taelan limited himself to making small potions here and there.

A year passed. The elf had consumed another seven minds, a wilds man who was found wandering about the woods one day, but turned out to be a superb survivalist. Four mages, a warlock (who put up quite a fight) and an elf warrior, who Vark urged him to draw from to gain some knowledge of actual fighting, he did not gain much, but he did start to exhibit an extraordinary sense of balance, a by-product of the night elf's long experience no doubt. Taelan also tried to absorb a priest, but was firmly rebuffed, the priest had impenetrable (by his standards) mental defences and Taelan ended up having to disappointedly slit his throat instead.

But when he absorbed too much once again he found that the knowledge _leaked, _for want of a better word anyway. Taelan had, along with a sense of balance, gained from the night elf memories of his whole life. He consciously discarded many of these, thinking them useless, but that led to subconsciously discarding a great many more, but even worse, he had sometimes absorbed personality traits, not on the level of voices speaking in his head or an embarrassing accent or anything, but he found himself being merciful on occasion, for no good reason.

Vark had, of course, immediately noticed the Taelan's change in demeanour, and had hit the elf over the head again, so that he might sort himself out.

Vark was a good friend.

It worked, and Taelan could prevent any dissident or undesirable elements from infiltrating his psyche, whilst still absorbing knowledge on an instinctive level, and with practice, he could employ the knowledge easily in his normal life, like the potion laced food he made from powdered briarroot and a normal meat broth, or the really quite impressive displays of spells on the battlefield.

Regardless, the Ranger's mind was leaking again, that usually surfaced a couple of weeks after the absorption, and if Tealan didn't actually employ the thoughts he'd lose them. However, somehow Taelan did not think that Fáer Briunnìn, Ranger of the Dúnadan, had more knowledge that Saruman the White, Loremaster of Orthanc. No doubt there would be a library here about that might have important information in it somewhere.

However the musing elf was once again jolted out of his musings by the sound of whimpering from the other side of the pedestal. He walked around it and observed a bloodied human, which, he eventually realised, was Saruman. The Wizard was unrecognisable; he was curled in a ball, his stump to his chest and hidden in the folds of his robes, which were now decidedly un-white. You could even go as far as to call him 'Saruman the Red', considering the colouration of his robes now.

Taelan liked red.

He gave the Wizard a kick then turned again, seeing bored looking human.

"I heard shouting from outside, what's happening?" Nine asked, his voice ragged, he coughed a few times and one hand went to his side as he pushed himself to sit up further on the wall.

Taelan nodded, "Some of the Loyalist Uruk-hai took exception to the Warchief's appointment." It was amusing seeing the thoughtful expression come over Nine's face, then the widening of the eyes in shock.

"Warchief?" Nine spluttered.

"Indeed." Replied Taelan, "He's currently locked away with the previous Uruk commander, you know," Taelan snapped his fingers a few times. "Lurtz! That's his name; anyway, I thought I should come check on you."

Nine smiled. "I appreciate it. It's very boring watching him." He said, nodding toward Saruman the Red. "I think he's stable enough, but you could send for some bandages or something, and clean his wound, if the 'Warchief' wants him as a prisoner anyway."

"And you?" Asked Taelan.

"Healing, ribs are tender enough but Vark dealt with most of it." Replied Nine, tapping his side.

Taelan nodded again, and wandered over to the window, this side of the tower faced the south, probably because you couldn't get a line of sight through the valley, what with the mountains and everything. Then again, it was probably a magic seeing stone, so it could do what it wanted, mountains or no mountains. He could see the forest out toward the horizon, what was presumably morning dew made the leaves shine in the sun.

"Can't you heal him?" asked Nine from behind him.

"I'm not a priest, the Light didn't seem to like me." Replied Taelan. "Actually, on that subject, how did you resist my curse when you tried to kill us?"

There was a rustling from behind him and he spun on his heel, Nine was wrestling a collection of amulets from around his neck, he selected a wooden circle with a line through it. "Null magic charm." He explained. Then pulled a feather made of silver.

"Oooh shiny." Cooed Taelan inching towards it.

"Slowfall, activation only, otherwise whenever I jumped it would send me flying." Said Nine, putting the necklaces away again, "I have several more, but they're more specific functions."

"Useful." Commented Taelan, thinking about the creation of such charms.

"Indeed." Mimicked Nine.

The two were silent then, only the chirruping of little birds and the whimpering of Saruman to break it. Taelan gave him another kick for good measure. He looked back at Nine, "Get some sleep, I'll come if there's anything you need to know about. He strode out over the balcony and looked down. There was a large group of figures clustered around the steps of Orthanc, no doubt wanting to confirm the rumours, and Taelan thought he should probably warn the Warchief that he'd have to hold court soon. He walked back in and toward the door, nodding once at Nine then strode from the room.

There was an odd prickling sensation on the back of his neck and Taelan stopped. His foot raised in the air for another step. He looked down, Saruman's staff lay across the floor where it had been dropped. He glowered at it but predictably it did noting, so he just stepped over it and carried on.

"Remember not to touch the staff." He called over his shoulder, then slipped out the doors.

OOOoooOOO

"It's strange you know" murmured Taelan from behind the throne, "We seem to always stay up until dawn, we're almost nocturnal."

Vark grinned, fangs bared. His thumb caressed the half of his axe; he felt the cool stone of the throne on his forearm. Surprisingly the seat was actually big enough for him, rather than a lot of furniture made for humans that collapsed whenever Vark sat down on them.

"Oh this is nothing." He replied quietly, lips hardly moving, "You remember Tirisfal?" He looked over his shoulder, a wry smile on his face.

Taelan chuckled, hiding his amusement behind a ragged sleeve. He nodded, still smiling.

Vark shifted slightly, pushing himself up on the arm of the chair. A great deal of petitioners waited below the steps of the throne, talking quietly amongst themselves. They glanced warily at Vark, intimidated by their new ruler. A surprising collection of races and stations were represented. Orcs and goblins stood, bow legged with eyes narrowed. Then harsh, dark haired men, clad in heavy furs secured by broad leather belts. Across on the other side of the chamber were more finely dressed men, in bright robes and tassels.

Seeing the Vark's attention was now on them, a goblin stepped forward, a wolf's pelt across his shoulders, leather and plates of bleached bone lashed about him as armour. A short, jagged scimitar hung from his hip.

"Warchief." The goblin snarled, the word unfamiliar to him. "Shakru is dead, and all our wargs gone, the tribes demand them back!"

Vark nodded, he had expected this. "Let the gates be opened, the wargs will return." He lent forward, looking directly at the goblin. "But see that they are treated better that you did before."

The goblin held his stare; ugly teeth bared, then looked away. With a muffled 'Warchief', he shuffled backward, then turned and exited the chamber. Vark tuned his gaze to the group again; they shuffled awkwardly under his glare. At length, one of the brightly attired men came forward, he wore a red robe, and his hair was kept in a single braid at the back, a small silver clasp keeping it together.

"My Lord, there are many among us who wonder what has become of Saruman the Wise, who ruled from that seat for many long years in peace and prosperity. Furthermore, by what authority do you now rule?" he simpered, eyes darting around the chamber.

The Uruk-hai at the base of the dais growled and grasped their swords, and Vark smiled. Evidently this was only of the Wizard's pupils, or at least, one of those who supported Saruman first. Vark opened his mouth to speak, but Taelan answered for him.

"You speak of 'authority'?" the elf sneered, he pointed to the silver bladed battle axe propped against the arm of Vark's throne. "_That_ is the Warchief's authority, and _that_ is what became of Saruman the White." The Uruk-hai laughed harshly at that, still fingering their weapons and staring evilly at the red robed man. Some of the dark haired men laughed as well, hearty chuckles booming from their lips. The petitioner looked very worried at the sudden hostility of the chamber.

The robed man spluttered angrily. "I take it then, that Saruman is dead?" he asked, his question still directed at Vark, stoically ignoring Taelan.

"Unless he has some sorcery to survive his head being removed from his body." Smirked Taelan. There were more laughs from the crowd. However, the robed man looked positively murderous.

"By what right did you slay our just leader?" demanded the man, striding forward.

Lurtz took offense at this. Moving swiftly from his place at the base of the steps, he too strode forward, "The Warchief killed Sharkey. Might is his Right!" he yelled, spittle flying from his mouth, his fangs bared inches from the man's face.

Whilst the petitioner stumbled backwards away from his bodyguard, Vark considered the change in Lurtz. The Uruk had, only the night before, been the main physical power in Isengard, and commanded its armies, managed logistics and planned battles. Whilst his duties had not changed, his ideology certainly had, firstly, Vark had spoken long with him about Orcs, never revealing that most of his arguments were from Azerothian leaders such as Thrall or Hellscream, but implied that the thoughts were his own. Vark had planted the notion of self-determination within Lurtz's skull, and the idea had blossomed magnificently. Lurtz was now firmly behind the idea of the new, Isengardian Horde. The Uruk in question grunted to himself and walked back to the throne, taking up station at Vark's right hand.

Vark lent forward again, "Who actually are you?" he asked the man, speaking slowly with mock-confusion.

Red Robes drew himself up, the tassels on his sleeves dangling and waving with the movement of his arms. "My Lord," he said grudgingly, "I am Jareth of Tharbad, I was once Saruman's councillor and helper in his wizardry." Apparently this was a particularly noteworthy post according to the various folk in the chamber, as many of them stepped back gasping.

Lurtz lent forward to whisper in Vark's ear, "He is also the keeper of the blasting fire, yet that is the only wizardry he is capable of."

"Blasting fire?" questioned Vark, he thought this sounded all too familiar. "You know where it is kept?" he asked, looking up at Lurtz.

Lurtz nodded looking back at Jareth. Vark grinned and turned, he looked at Taelan, standing unusually smartly at Vark's left elbow. Taelan looked back questioningly. The Warchief addressed Jareth again, "So, you are mighty in Wizardry?" he asked, still smiling.

Jareth of Tharbad looked hesitant, "I have oft times assisted Saruman in his great spells, and he entrusted me the stewardship of the Fire of Orthanc." He held up a small silver key, then presented it to Vark, who took it, turning it over in his massive hand.

Vark nodded magnanimously, "Well then Jareth of Tharbad, let us see how much of the mysteries of the arcane you truly know." He said, handing the key to Taelan. "Give that to Nine later on." He instructed. Taelan nodded, slipping the key into a pocket.

Jareth looked even more wary now, and stood tensely, arms held stiffly by his sides. "How might you prove that Lord?" he asked, "I must have time to prepare what spells and knowledge I have been gifted with." He explained.

Vark and Taelan's smiles mirrored each other's, Vark looked back at the elf "Burn him." He pronounced slowly.

Jareth of Tharbad's eyes flashed a look of fear briefly, but he soon regained his confidence, and, standing taller, directed his attention toward the unknown quantity standing by the new Lord's great chair. "Your servant cannot harm me!" he said proudly, "Only Saruman could possibly harness a spell of such power as to kill a man."

Said 'servant' was stalking slowly forward, gradually gathering power, he walked up to the red robed man, smiling disarmingly. Or, at least what he thought was disarmingly, in reality it was actually quite sinister, coupled with the darkened hood and the eager look on the Warchief's face. Taelan placed his hand on Jareth's shoulder, the man tried to shake it off, but Taelan only tightened his grip.

Jareth drew breath to demand the removal of Taelan's hand, but instead what emerged from his mouth was a scream, followed by smoke as he was immolated, Taelan simply stood, the fire not harming him, still smiling his casual smile. Jareth's heavy robes soon caught fire, they too burning, his tassels falling to the floor blackened and smoking, his hair burning particularly quickly, no doubt treated with oils to make it lie flat. Taelan's other hand shot forward, seizing the man about the neck, fire leapt from both hands now, and the whole torso and head was flaming. Jareth tried to remove the warlock's hands, but as soon as his hands touched Taelan they too caught fire.

The chamber was in uproar. The dark haired men had jumped back, shouting oaths, some had drawn their weapons but their leader, a particularly tall and broad fellow, restrained them. The Orcs and goblins were less surprised at the sudden violence, and Lurtz even looked curious at the scene. Jareth of Tharbad's companions were horrified. Here they saw was real power, not the bluffs and tricks of their previous leader, the smidgeons of a Wizard, stuck up in his high tower, refusing to share power with them. They desired power, but were also fearful of the figure that now stood over a blackened and ash covered skeleton, the bones cracked from the heat of the flames.

Taelan stooped over the skull, white bone glinting in the torchlight, and picked up the silver hair clip his victim had been wearing, he dusted the soot off on his sleeve and raised it to the light, admiring the workmanship. He pocketed it and walked cheerfully back to the throne.

"Most impressive" remarked Vark, Taelan nodded magnanimously, smiling. Vark looked back to the petitioners, several of the humans were being sick, the Orcs however looked quite hungry at the smell.

Lurtz lent across to remark to Taelan that "You could have saved us some." He said, looking wistfully at the pile of bones. Taelan laughed lightly, assuring Lurtz that he would bring him manflesh at his earliest convenience; Lurtz bared his teeth and gestured for the guards to remove the skeleton.

"Bring me the skull" said Taelan to the Uruk-hai guards, one of them immediately straightened, digging about the pile of bones for the skull, he quickly found it and jogged over to Taelan and bowing, presented him with the grinning cranium. The other Uruks swept the bones onto their shields and carried it out of the chamber, returning quickly after disposing of the refuse.

"So." Spoke Vark to the robed men. "He was the greatest among you?"

The robed figures shook in their finely made boots. Some nodded whilst many remained silent. Vark scoffed at them, and turned to Taelan. "You want them?" he asked flippantly.

Taelan made a quizzical 'hmmm' noise, then shrugged, "They could be useful." He replied after a while, "For experiments and suchlike." He said lightly, several of the robed figures looked apprehensive.

"Very well. Dismissed." Vark said, waving a hand at the quaking robes, they quickly filed out, followed by several Orcs and lesser goblins. Only the dark haired men were left now, along with a few Orcs loitering about the edges of the chamber.

Vark pointed to the group of men, "You have been silent thus far, what would you have of me?" he demanding, quickly growing tired of holding court.

The larger man stepped forward, edging around the spot of ash left by the fiery demise of Jareth of Tharbad. The man was a rugged, hardy sort, very broad at the shoulders, with thick hair and a black beard reaching to his chest. The skin of a bear was about his shoulders, and he had leather bracers on his arms and dark metal plates armouring his chest like a crab. Two large axes hung from a broad belt with a large buckle, and his feet were shod is stout boots.

"I am Garth, Son of Freca." He said loudly, hands on the heads of his axes. "My father and brother desired alliance with Orthanc, and I come to report to my bother, the King Crow, on the progress. He comes here soon to swear fellowship in war."

Taelan once again took the lead, "What are the terms of the Dunlendings?" he asked.

"Rohan for the Dunlendings, free movement to those of Orthanc across our land, as long as they obey our laws, we desire war on the Straw-heads for their part at Celebrant, and their long war with our people, my brother wills their doom, and the Wizard promised the aid of his soldiers in this." Explained Garth passionately, angrily pronouncing the name of 'Rohan'.

"And the Warchief will honour that pact, as will Orthanc. But after the war, Orthanc will control the Gap of Rohan, and all trade through that land will pay a tithe to the Tower." Said Taelan, "The Soldiery of Dunland will protect Orthanc from threats should we wish it."

Garth considered for a few minutes with his companions in the Dunland tongue, one older man, his beard longer and greyer than the other appeared to oppose the terms of the potential treaty, but he was overruled by the others. Garth made his way back, "I will relay these terms to my brother, I am confident in his agreement, for he is a fair Lord."

Taelan nodded again, smiling, and the Dunlendings trooped out.

"That seems to be everyone." Remarked Taelan to Vark.

It was true; the various courtiers had indeed departed and all the petitioners whose petitions were not urgent had obviously been scared away. Vark stood from his throne, picked his axe up, and wandered away, Taelan and Lurtz on his heels. As the throne was quite cold, Vark had, from some recess of the tower, procured a skin of some unknown brown animal, and now wore it as a cloak or sorts. Quite a small cloak though, as it only reached to his waist.

The three walked along a passageway around the side of the tower, arched windows on their right side; through them the river Isen glistened in the morning sun. Vark observed that the pits seemed to be less busy today; there was significantly less smoke coming from them and fewer people traveling in between them. In the distance he could see the gates being opened, no doubt word had reached them that the wargs would soon be returning.

Vark pushed open a stone door, that was another unusual thing about the tower, almost everything was made of stone, doors, bedframes, chairs, everything. Furthermore, the stone was of an unusual composition, black for the most part, however some of it had veins of colour running through it. Taelan had speculated that it was volcanic in nature, but given the distinct lack of volcanoes in the area this theory was unlikely.

They came into Saruman's laboratory, and, picking their way through the assorted chemicals and vials of various sorts, stood at the door to the Palantír Chamber. This particular floor of the tower had been constructed into four rectangular areas facing the four directions; north, south east and west, with the most important rooms in the tower set on that level.

It would seem the Númenóreans who built the tower had designed the throne room to sit on the fourth floor, directly below where the tower started to get thinner, rising ever more into a flat space at the top of the tower, four sharp claws around it, some said they focused Saruman's power over a greater space, but few knew of such arcane mysteries, in fact, one of those who knew was now little more than a pile of cracked and blackened bones, the skull missing.

The Wizard had arranged the most important areas of his tower on that floor, first, the throne room, where he would receive audiences, then an antechamber and entrance chamber with the stairway connecting the floor to the rest of the tower. Further around was the laboratory, many storage cupboards and workbenches full of alchemic concoctions and simmering potions. It was a disordered space, Saruman trusted few with his secrets, and had forbidden servants from coming into that space, fearing thieves and the taking of his secrets. Rightly so, it had turned out, with one of the first things Taelan did when he gained access being to steal the light giving crystal from Gandalf the Grey's staff.

But the last chamber, and perhaps the most important one in the whole tower stood on the North side, its windows opening to the cold northern wind coming down off the mountains and the great peak Methedras, the gusts whirling around the tower and onto the southern side. Few had seen the inside of the chamber, for indeed, Saruman trusted few, even within the White Council of which he was head. At normal hours the room was dark, with only the flickering light of braziers to light it, the cold stone gleamed in the fire, and shone, throwing shadows far across the room, and yet, even with the bright sheen around the room, it was still dark.

The reason for this darkness sat on a carven pedestal, eight sides, facing all directions, a grey cloth covered the top, something lay underneath it, a dark sphere of stone, a swirling storm in its depths to all but the strong of mind who could turn it to their purposes. Saruman was one of such mind, and had often turned the orb to gaze across the land, his sight traveling far across the fields, even into the far countries of Rhûn and Harad, where the stars were strange.

But Saruman's gaze had been trapped. A black hand had crept out from Mordor and ensnared him as his mind journeyed on the winds. The black hand held him, and they battled for two days in spirit, there had been great confusion in Isengard on those days, the Wizard had stood, unmoving over the orb, and once when a servant had tried to bodily remove him the man was thrown backwards before he could lay hand on either the fell orb, or the Wizard himself. After that the servants simply stood waiting outside the chamber, little understanding the peril their master was in.

The days had ended, and eventually the doors to the chamber opened. Saruman had walked out, his steps faltering; the servants took his arms and then went to his bedchamber, leaving him to rest awhile. The Wizard woke in the afternoon and went immediately to the top of the tower, many thought this strange, for Saruman had spoken nothing to the rest of the tower, not even to his guards or chamberlain.

Such had been the fall of Saruman the White, his hubris and pride leading to his downfall. Overconfidence was his ruin, but also over inquisitiveness, meddling in affairs that should not have been meddled in. Now he was a slave to Sauron and the Iron Fortress of Barad-dûr, his every move watched by the Great Eye.

But in recent years his service had borne fruit. He had gained much knowledge from Sauron, the secrets of Mordor, or at least some of them, were now known to him. For he had long studied the arts of the Enemy, and in this way also he had been caught and trapped, wishing to learn more to defeat his foe, he had instead become like him. The Uruk-hai were one of these, created through decades of research and trials. They rivalled even the Black Uruks of Mordor in strength and prowess in battle, and the War of the Ring would be their first trial.

OoooooOOOOOOooooooO

Nine dreamt. His thoughts filled with images of a great eye, fiery, its pupil a slit like a cat's. He recognised it from Saruman's tower, when he made the long climb up the side, the stone coated with condensation from the night. It was one of the most difficult climbs of his life, they edges of the tower were angular and allowed for easy traversing across surfaces and a fairly simple accent, but the sharp edges had cut his hands, the blood making the stone even more slippery. But it was the summit that was the worst.

Just after he leapt for the balcony's edge and hauled himself up he looked into Saruman's chamber. He was understandably curious about the glow coming from the ledge, but had no idea about what it actually was. So, as he gained the chamber and clung desperately to the railing he had seen a fearsome sight.

Saruman stood, his hand curled over a glowing glass ball, within the ball was a fire, a burning eye, the eye looked toward Saruman, and the Wizard's face was harshly lit with a menacing red glow, his high cheekbones and hooked nose standing out in sharp relief. But Nine had been frozen as he looked upon the eye, his knuckles turned white and fresh blood oozed from in-between his fingers as he gripped the balustrade tightly. He felt himself falling; saw a great white city burning, black shapes swooping through the clouds of smoke.

He had begun to feel the great eye turn toward him, searching for him, he saw too, a look of confusion in Saruman's eyes, Nine had almost been discovered, but then the harsh cry of a bird had shaken him from this paralysis. He tried to step back, but found himself on thin air; his body swung down and hit the sharp, angled edge of the balcony, bruising his shoulders painfully. But he still had his grip. The spy had gently let himself down, hiding in the support structure for the terrace, catching his breath.

He used a strip of cloth to wipe the blood off his hands, then bound them in bandages which he always kept a few rolls of. The Wizard seemed not to have noticed anything, and he sat there awhile to recover from the ordeal. The images from the ball haunted him for the rest of his descent down the tower, but he had shaken them off by the time he got to the bottom, and the fight with the guards was an easy one for the him and his two companions.

The climb likewise was not a difficulty, and he had readied his knives as Vark grabbed a battle-axe of one of the weapon displays on the walls. The fight with the Wizard had been brief, but they had almost been defeated, the Wizard's tricks with his staff had thrown Nine a good distance across the room, and broken several of his ribs in the process, but Nine had jammed a knife into the Wizard's shoulder first.

The rest was foggy; Nine had suspected concussion after he hit the wall. The aftermath seemed wreathed in smoke, he remembered hauling himself into a sitting position using a brazier stand and throwing another of his knives at the Wizard, then he remembered a good deal of talking, little of which he understood, he then remembered a warmth creeping into his chest, at first he thought it was blood, no doubt something had been punctured by one of his broken ribs and was leaking his life out inside him. But he was wrong, it was Vark healing him, his head cleared somewhat, and he remembered Vark telling him to watch over Saruman. The Wizard did not look like he would be going anywhere soon. He also remembered Taelan's fleeting warning about not touching the Wizard's staff, the black stick still lay where it had fallen, clattering to the floor at the end of the fight.

Then came several hours of careful testing of his ribs, the conclusion that they had mostly knitted together, and the wooziness in his head was lessened as well, only a slight headache now, rather than the blinding pain from before. He watched the Wizard also, who had curled up into a ball by the foot of the pedestal.

The orb on top of it unnerved him, he recollected the red eye, evil it seemed, staring out at him, and it may have been a trick of his imagination, but the black ball seemed to stare as well. He had found a space cloth in a corner and covered it over the pedestal. Nine had then crawled over to Saruman and torn his robes into strips for bandages, knotting one about his head where he felt blood running down the back of his neck, then looking over the other scrapes and scratches he had acquired during their little jaunt in Middle Earth.

Then finally, he had fallen asleep, dreams took him and he lay like that for hours into the day, during which Vark held court, and Taelan immolated unfortunate people. However after this, his two friends walked to the chamber to change the watch over Saruman, and to check on Nine's injuries.

The door opened and Nine woke abruptly, his hand instinctively went to the haft of his knife, hidden in his sleeve, but it was only Vark, wearing a skin round his shoulders, his chest left bare.

"How are you?" enquired Taelan, who poked his head through the threshold, hands gripping the doorframe.

"Still healing." Replied Nine, wincing, it still hurt to breathe.

"Good, because you have an appointment with a tailor." Said the elf, his head disappearing out of the room. Then, a few seconds later, he came back, walking backwards gingerly, he turned, and looked suspiciously at the black staff on the ground, the white gem at its head twinkling in the light. One eyebrow rose, the elf's fingers drummed unconsciously on his belt, then he swiftly exited and wandered off down the corridor.

Nine blinked a few times, shrugged, then pulled himself up using the wall and shelves as support, he staggered over to the door, his legs having lost all feeling, using the wall for more support, he made his way through the laboratory, knocking over a chair on the way, then into the throne room of Orthanc, Vark sat in the ornate, high chair, Taelan lounged on a cushion next to it, whilst the captain of the black Orcs stood stiffly to the side, Nine couldn't remember his name, as he had rarely spoken to him. Nine looked around for a chair, and, seeing a wooden stool in a corner, made his way over to it, then sat down heavily, his head resting against the wall, eyes closed.

"So?" he asked the room at large.

Nine heard a snort, most likely from Vark, then confirmation by the deep voice that followed.

"Good morning to you as well." replied the new Warchief.

"I was perfectly happy, sitting in there-" said Nine sardonically before he was cut off.

"Bleeding to death." Deadpanned Taelan from beside Vark.

An amused sound came from Vark, and even Nine had to smile. He reach up and took off his headband, now dark with blood. He then flung it in the direction of Taelan, as best as he could make it. It apparently missed, given that no one reacted.

Eventually they heard a shuffling noise from the corridor and Nine opened his eyes. An old man walked in, barely lifting his feet as he walked, following him was a younger man with a wooden slate and paper, both wore odd contraptions of glass and metal on their eyes. The older moved at a pace little to be believed with his manner of walking, and the younger seemed to be having trouble keeping up with him, even with long strides.

The shuffler stopped at the foot of the throne, bowed low, but stayed silent. The younger man stepped forward, also bowing.

"Lords," he said, "my father is a tailor, and has come at your request to measure you for clothes. He however cannot speak, due to having his tongue cut out."

At this the older man helpfully opened his mouth to show them.

"Therefore," continued the younger man, heedless of the antics of his parent, "Please direct any questions to me."

To all of them this seemed reasonable, and the three waited for the old man to start, he first motioned for Vark to stand, but the Orc waved him off. "Taelan and Nine first." He said, "I wear nothing but armour, so will have no need for other garb." He said rather self-importantly.

The old man smiled, nodded, then shuffled over to Taelan, holding his arm up, then, pulling a knotted string from his pocket he began to measure Taelan, first his neck, then waist and the length of his arms and legs.

Nine closed his eyes once more and leant backwards, the stone of the tower cooling the gash in the back of his head. He had found that head wounds bled ridiculous amounts in comparison with their size, for instance, a slight scratch on the temple would weep far more blood that one of even double the size on an arm. He reached back and probed the wound with his fingers, it was a clean cut, but he had absolutely no idea where it had come from, given that Saruman had not attacked him with a bladed weapon.

However, Nine was broken out of his musings by a question from Taelan, he opened his eyes and brought his head forward again.

"What?" he asked, not having paid attention previously.

"When are you leaving? You know, on your little…'excursion'" asked the elf, mindful of the listeners in the chamber. The old man continued on with his work, measuring Taelan's chest under his arms.

Nine considered for a moment, trying to gauge how long it would take for his injuries to heal. "Within a day if you need me to." He said, looking at Vark, the Orc looked back at him, saying nothing. "Depends on how long it takes to get my inventory together." Nine looked at the tailor's son, standing nigh with his primitive clipboard. "I will need new garb, as soon as possible, tunic, hose, cloak, trousers, gloves perhaps." He looked down at his boots, raising a leg to check their soles. Then he nodded. "And boots. All rough gear, traveling clothes, strongly made. How soon can they be ready?" he asked.

The tailor's son was furiously writing down Nine's order, his father however, was apparently oblivious to the discussion and was now lifting one of Taelan's feet, the elf balanced precariously on the other, holding the top of Vark's throne for support. "What else do you need?" the son asked.

"A sword, a bow maybe, a good horse, armour, but you need not worry about them; I'll get them from the smiths." Nine responded, thinking about his journey.

The elder tailor had finished his ministrations with Taelan, and shuffled toward his son and the clipboard. Then, taking the quill and dipping it in a small ink well in the board; he scratched a few figures on it. He then gave his on back the quill, and advanced menacingly on Nine, knotted string in hand. Nine stood wearily, accepting the attentions of the tailor as he pottered about measuring Nine's body.

As the elder employed his measuring instruments the younger looked once again to Nine, then to Vark, and again to Nine, finally settling on the spy. "Most of this is easy work, for apprentices, and with the current projects and jobs it can be done in a week easily." He said.

However, Vark was apparently not pleased with this timeframe. "All previous projects are suspended, anyone who has orders with you can answer to me, every worker you have is working on this till it's finished. This is your priority."

The tailor's son stopped writing, gulped, then drew a large circle on his paper, no doubt showing the importance of this task. He nodded at Vark, then handed the quill to his elder, who scribbled down his notes from Nine's measurements. He conferred with the other on some matter of figures, then looked up again. "If we only work on these we should be finished much quicker, a day perhaps." He said.

Vark nodded again, "Very well, send it all up when it is finished."

The two tailors bowed, and then left, shuffling and striding respectively.

There was silence in the chamber for several minutes after that, the group lost in their respective thoughts. Vark lazed on his throne, Lurtz stood guard, back ramrod straight, Taelan looked mournfully at his threadbare sleeve, but consoled himself that at least now he would have chance to acquire more clothes. Nine simply let his head cool on the wall, he felt a headache coming on.

Eventually Lurtz grew tired of the silence and broke it, "What now Warchief?" he asked, his fangs and mouth structure making the words sound harsh and uncouth to any civilised ears. However, he was not among civilised persons, so he didn't have to worry about it.

Vark stood, stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles loudly, Taelan moved to his side, and Nine joined them shortly after. Vark turned to his friends again, "Now we go to the armourers, Nine needs to complete his kit."

Nine shrugged and they marched off. The group descended down the stairs, following the route three of them had a half day before, Vark lead, with Taelan at his shoulder, whilst Nine and Lurtz walked a few paces behind them, the narrowness of the stairs preventing them from walking four abreast, even if Vark was not almost as broad as Taelan twice over. Vark and Taelan discussed some adventure they recollected in friendly manner, and, believing his Warchief to be safe for the moment, Lurtz leant into Nine, an addressed a matter that had been bothering him for several days.

"The Warchief tells me you know something of ranged combat?" he asked, though it was distasteful of him to require aid of a human at all.

Nine cracked a smile at the Uruk's term for Vark, knowing the real reason behind the name, and he nodded, "I have used a bow before, but I prefer the crossbow if I can, I am also somewhat proficient in the use of thrown weapons, knifes for preference." He said, then drew out one of his knives from a sleeve; Lurtz's hand went to the hilt of his sword at the proffered weapon, but relaxed. The black Orc took the knife, hefting it in his hand, he noted the balance of the blade, and the made a clumsy motion to throw it, miming the move, his wrist flicking at the end of the gesture. He gave it back to Nine.

"I cannot use this. It is too small and light." He said, he tapped the end of his compound bow strapped to his back instead. "I use this." He pulled the weapon from its fastenings on his back, and handed it to Nine. The man drew the bow, flexing it several times, then holding it drawn until his arms shook.

"A heavier draw than I am used to. Though no doubt it would be effective on armoured targets, as well as giving you proper stopping power, what arrowheads do you use?" the man said, passing the bow back, Lurtz was privately surprised that he could draw it at all, it would seem that under the relatively thin frame Nine had strength.

Lurtz seemed not to understand the question, he replaced his bow and pulled out an arrow from the quiver at his hip, handing it again to Nine. The man assessed it, then passed it back also.

"A bow like yours can take advantage of larger and heavier arrowheads, enabling you to loose more powerful shots, thus killing your enemy faster, as the arrow will be embedded more deeply in them." Nine explained, motioning with the arrow. "Such an arrowhead as this" he said, waving it about, "will certainly kill your enemy, and will penetrate armour as it is thin at the point, meaning the force is concentrated, this is called a 'Bodkin' arrow. However, given your strength and the draw of your weapon, you want a Broadhead arrowhead."

Lurtz was absorbing this large amount of information slowly. He had not considered the sharpness of the arrowhead, nor the weight of his bow when he had been given his weapons, and no-one had told him these things before, he was actually beginning to like the tark. His mind went back to the conversation. "Why would a 'Broadhead' be best?" he asked.

"Ah, well." Said Nine, going back into lecture mode. "A broadhead usually has several sides, not just two like a Bodkin. The ones I've used had three sides, but I've seen them made with four, they're heavier too, this is because the increased surface of the arrow means more metal is used, which in turn means you need a bigger bow to shoot them, or thicker shafts."

Lurtz understood most of that, but wanted to clarify a few points. "Why the larger surface?" he asked.

"Larger surface means more blood." Remarked Nine simply. He pointed to the tip of the arrow with one grimy finger. "This point is just a point, when it penetrates you can pull it out again with minimal damage." He said, "But, with four sides, your surface is increased by two, means in turn that when they pull it out there is massive bleeding."

Lurtz liked the sound of that. He took the arrow back, replacing it among its fellows. "Before you leave on whatever mission the Warchief has planned for you, could you describe these weapons to the armourers?" he asked somewhat hesitantly, being the large black Uruk that he was.

Nine nodded to him, smiling, he had in fact, only been a few years till he would have been promoted, redeployed to teach the younger recruits back in Old Town, he was an excellent field agent, he knew that (from breaking into the department's records room) but it did get rather boring, especially the stakeouts.

Lurtz looked at him again. Nine actually wondered who had instructed the soldiers in Isengard, judging by their apparent disregard for basic military protocol and security. The Uruk opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, apparently struggling with what to say. Nine noticed Vark and Taelan had finished their conversation and were probably listening in.

"What of poisons?" Lurtz asked.

"Long or short term?" said Nine back to him.

Lurtz raised an eyebrow.

"Long term is for quiet assassinations, you pretend to be a servant or something and put them in your target's food. I doubt they would be useful to you, also they are quite difficult to find and make." Said Nine, finding that he was remembering the words of his teachers coming back to him. "Short term can be divided into two types. First, battle poisons, useful on stronger enemies, they can be painful, or create fake images for your enemy to be confused by. They deliberate your enemy so that he's less effective in combat. Allowing you to win more easily, useful on ranged weaponry, they can slow your target, but they usually don't kill them outright. With me so far?" he asked.

Lurtz eagerly nodded.

"Well the other type is instants. As the name suggests they kill your enemy instantly, or within seconds, much more useful on close quarters weaponry, and small ones at that, you can't get enough poison to coat a sword blade usually, so it's better to use daggers, observe." Nine pulled out a different knife; a dull sheen could be seen on the blade in the flickering light. He mimed a slicing motion. "The knife wound allows some of the poison to be left in the wound that gets carried around the body by the blood. This here," he tapped the blade, "is Instant Poison, as in, it works instantly, you stab someone with this and if they don't die from the wound they'll die in seconds anyway from the poison."

Lurtz observed the blade carefully. "And where does one acquire the poison?" he asked slowly.

"Find me a poisonous plant, or a snake, or a deadly spider or something and you'll get your poison, when I get back from my mission I can make you some. But don't go messing about with something if I'm not there, you'll probably kill yourself, and we don't have an antidote. I've seen it happen before." Nine warned.

Lurtz nodded again, and thanked Nine somewhat stiffly. By the time their conversation was over the group had come to the large lift that allowed people to get down into the pits, the lift was mainly for important people, or awkward cargos that couldn't be taken along the wooden stairs in the cliff side. Lurtz signalled to the goblin operator, and a wheel turned, releasing a length of chain that slowly lowered the lift downwards. The chain clanked and swayed as the platform descended. Nine wondered idly if anyone had thought to put a railing or a panel around it, given that the swaying piece of wood would quite easily throw someone off in a high wind.

Regardless, the platform soon reached the bottom of the cave, the sun still shone brightly, but the cave was significantly colder because of the lack of sunlight. Nine wondered if the caves were natural or not, the walls looked natural certainly, with some signs of improvement and expansion in some areas, as well as a flattening of the floor. But the roof looked unusual, or rather, the lack of roof, he had seen the effects of explosives many times in his life, and the damage to the sides of the large, jagged rim of the chasms was unusual if it was a natural formation.

Furthermore, from what he understood, it was only Saruman's changes to the area that made it look how it did now, rather than the apparently green and verdant vale it was before the Wizard's industrialisation. Of course it was nothing on the scale of Stormwind, the tower was impressive yes, but the rest of Isengard was quite backward in comparison with some of the other cities he had been to. Saruman could have definitely learnt a thing or two from the dwarves, particularly about the efficiency of furnaces and Dams, Nine could see at least seven instances of furnaces just burning, with nothing in them or actually being made at all.

But regardless of any complaints Nine may have or may not have had about the efficiency of Saruman's machinery, how did he make the caverns? If not by natural means Nine assumed that whoever had built Orthanc would not have built it on a plain studded with large sinkholes. Therefore, logic dictates that they were artificial, however, Nine had seen no explosives, or indeed any of the more advanced technologies he was familiar with. Although…He wouldn't want to see Lurtz get his hands on a steam tank. So, either his eyes deceived him and the entrance from above into the pits was a natural one, calling into question the sanity of the tower builders, or, Saruman secretly had a stash of large, chasm opening bombs tucked away somewhere.

Nine scoffed, like that would happen!

OoOooooooooOoO

The four passed through the pits, heading past a great open space with many Orcs sparring in it. Lurtz paused by an officer there and gave him a few instructions, then they passed on again, Vark saw many soldiers of various races sitting at two large tables on a table off to the side, the humans on the left, the Orcs and goblinoids on the right. Vark paused awhile there, thinking.

"Food?" enquired Taelan, no doubt following his friend's chain of thought.

"I think we will stop for lunch." Replied Vark, "Lurtz, take us somewhere where we can eat and discuss things in private."

The Uruk saluted in Orcish fashion and paced away, calling out orders. The three waited there, drawing glances from the tables at the strange make-up of their group. After a few minutes Lurtz returned, then led them to a smaller chamber, two tables end to end were there, and benches to sit on, they found servants already laying dishes and plates out, and one bringing cutlery, well, wooden spoons for the consumption of liquids, at any rate. Almost every individual there had a knife for personal use anyway, usually for cutting meat or fabric, but in their case throats as well.

They sat at the benches, Vark and Taelan on one side, Nine on the other, till Vark told him to sit down to. The servants returned with a bird of some type, and a pot of stew of questionable nature. There were also vegetables of various sorts, including a tuber like root that Nine examined.

"We call them Ranis." They grow all over the caves, they taste like bread." Put in Lurtz, cutting his own ranis with a knife and eating it.

Nine tentatively took a bit out of his and chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed, "Bread." He said simply, and cut a slice from the bird, which after eating some of it he discovered to be a chicken.

Vark enacted his usual practice of only eating vegetables, leaving the meat to Taelan, who only ate meat. This was a peculiar arrangement that they had worked out to share Vark's ration packs in the early days of their acquaintance. Nine raised an eyebrow but said nothing at this. Instead waiting for someone else to speak.

A different servant rushed in, carefully but precariously carrying three jugs of drinks, and several wooden flagons. He set them down on the table and Taelan raised himself off his seat to peer into them.

"This one's water," he said, then moved onto the second, "Ale." He called out.

Nine who had been reaching for the first changed tack and grabbed the second instead, Taelan chuckled, Vark had poured him a flagon from the first jug. He puzzled over the second though, an eyebrow raised. "What's this?" he asked, looking up at Lurtz.

The Uruk poured himself a measure into his cup and gulped it down, grinned and slammed his flagon down again. "Orc Draught" he replied happily. "Try some Warchief!" he encouraged enthusiastically.

Vark took the jug, having drunk all his water, and poured himself some, he sniffed it carefully, then took a mouthful. It had a slightly fruity taste, if you could get past the burning sensation that accompanied it. He took another drink and wordlessly passed the flagon to Taelan.

Lurtz apparently thought this was a bad idea, and moved to stop him, "Warchief wait, he's-"

But could not finish his objection because the elf had already drained the vessel, which was quite a significant amount.

"I like the way it warms." Remarked Taelan coolly, then went back to his meat.

Lurtz sat shocked, eyes wide. Nine laughed.

They finished their food, and pushed the plates onto the other table. Then Vark commanded to Lurtz that the doors be shut. That was done, and Taelan pulled from his pocket a map. It was on brown paper, with spidery writing noting the different locations.

"We are here." Taelan said, pointing to a circle with a line in it at the south of a mountain range marked 'Isengard'. "You," he said, looking at Nine, "are going here." His finger drifted eastwards and southwards to a dark square marked 'Edoras'. "You must go south from here, then across the Fords of Isen, and east along the Great West Road and through the West Emnet until you reach the capital of that place. Nine look closely and nodded.

Then Vark spoke, his voice changed from the casual friendliness he had exhibited earlier. "You are a spy, that will be your mission, gather as much information as possible about them, make them trust you. In about a month I will be sending parties of Dunlendings and warg riders over the Isen to raid there. Tell them this, the parties will be of the worst troops, so you may use this as information you have gathered from the enemy. Is that clear?" he asked.

Nine nodded, "Do we have any operational intelligence at the moment?" he asked.

Taelan spoke this time, "Indeed we do, look here." He pulled a different sheet of paper this time, it showed a drawing of a shifty looking man, his hair was lank and dark and he had no eyebrows. "Behold Gríma, son of Gálmód, he is a member of Theoden, King of the Mark's court, a chief advisor if the documents I uncovered were to be believed."

Whilst Nine took the drawing, Lurtz was curious, "Where did these papers come from?" he asked Taelan.

"Saruman's study." Replied the elf nonchalantly.

"But how?" demanded Lurtz, "It is always locked with some spell, no one can enter there without the Wizard and he does not invite anyone to do so."

"As I thought." Replied Taelan. "But I did not use the door." He said enigmatically.

"Then how did you enter?" asked Lurtz.

"I flew of course." Replied Taelan, grinning.

Nine interrupted before the debate could go any further, "What is the significance of this man?" he asked, waving the sheet about.

"He is a spy." Explained Taelan. "I found a contract detailing a deal between Saruman and Gríma, that he would spy for Saruman until the Mark was under the Wizard's domain. There were many notes also, Saruman had been affecting the mind of the King constantly from afar, while Gríma, also called the Wormtongue, would whisper poison into the King's ear."

Nine mulled this over, and then replied. "Out of curiosity, what was the reward for Master Wormtongue?"

Taelan gave a sinister laugh at this, "The King's niece, a woman called Éowyn."

"Well that's distasteful." Remarked Nine after a pause.

Taelan nodded.

"Major players?" asked Nine.

Taelan brought up a hand, counting on his fingers, "The King, Théoden, son of Thengal, his son, Théodred, Second Marshal of Riddermark and heir to the throne. Then Éomer, nephew of the King, Third Marshal of Riddermark, Éowyn, as I have already said is the King's niece, and primary caregiver to the King whilst he was under Saruman's enchantment."

"You'll have guards, Lurtz can arrange it, to get you as far as you need them, I'm not risking a bear or something killing you on the way." Vark said with a grin.

Nine chuckled and took another sip of his ale. Then stood. "With your permission Warchief, I'm going to go have a look around." At Vark's waved hand he walked away, the doors swinging shut behind him.

OoooooooooooO

"What have you decided?" Taelan asked Vark softly. It was the next morning and Nine clothes were ready, he had selected a horse and was preparing to leave for Rohan. After his departure the day before the three had talked a while, about petty matters mostly, the provisioning of the new recruits in the army, and they had made a review of the weapons and armour of the Uruk-hai, the rest of the soldiers being for the most part fully equipped already. Vark had made several suggestions, and they had been considered by the armourers. Another piece of news was that the primary pieces of Vark's armour were almost complete, and the rest of it should be done within a matter of days. Though there was still a weapon to be found.

Taelan had left the other two there, and wandered off about the ring of Isengard, eventually finding the dwelling place of the so called 'Wizards' in a shady area full of a pungent smoke. He found them sitting on cushions smoking some kind of dried plant, taken out of a large barrel marked 'Longbottom Leaf'. After they had gotten over the shock of being caught they had admitted that they had stolen the barrel, believing the herb to be magical, otherwise, in the words of one old fellow, 'Why would Saruman smoke so much of it?". Taelan found this quite amusing, but the smoke in the room made him cough, so he left, not before raiding the quarters of Jareth of Tharbad, the man he had burnt, the elf had taken a liking to the man's clothes, and found a set himself, a red robe with a hood, and pointy shoes, which turned out to fit him better than his old boots. He hated the tassels though, so cut them off. Presumably the esteemed arcanists inside also believed that tassels increased magical power.

Taelan looked up at Vark, there was an intent expression on his face as he looked at Nine.

"I do not know." Replied Vark slowly, he had acquired a taste for the new world's manner of speaking, it felt more…right somehow. He looked fixedly at the spy drawing on a sheet of paper at a table, flanked by Vark's large bodyguard and Bronn, the armourer. Bronn pointed to the paper, saying something intelligible, no doubt about the design of the ammunition of Lurtz's bow.

"But will you tell him?" the elf asked more insistently.

"I do not know!" repeated Vark more forcefully, whispering harshly. The elf thought back to their current situation, sending a spy alone into enemy territory was no doubt a regular activity for any competent and reasonably intelligent military leader, but Taelan had taken a liking to the spy in question, he was frequently amusing, his situational humour a refreshing change from the often sardonic wit of Vark.

Taelan had noticed that Vark seemed to consider anyone not in his immediate circle to be tools for advancement. He had seen it with many of the Grunts and Peons, even some of the more junior officers had been manipulated by his orcish friend. Often Vark showed a cruel side, nothing like what Taelan often did to enemies for fun, but instrumental violence, violence to get him somewhere, several times a superior officer would come down with a sudden case of fever, or trip and fall, breaking a leg and making themselves unable to ride. But, all was well, for in stepped steady Sergeant Vark, the rising star of the Warsong Outriders, conveniently leading the sortie or skirmish against the elves.

Sometimes a kodo or wolf would become strangely agitated in his presence, or a Peon would shrink away from him, Vark never raised his hand to them, nor in fact, spoke any word, but they scurried to do his bidding. Strangely though, Taelan knew it was no remnant of the Blood Curse, as affected many of the younger Orcs of the generation. They struggled between Thrall's honour, based on human perceptions, some said weak perceptions, and Hellscream's more aggressive feelings, some whispered that it was demon honour, but others simply said that he was the herald of the Old Horde, the times of the First War, where the Orcs had drunk of the demon blood, butchering and raving across the green fields of Lorderon and Arathor.

It was not demons then, but something else, Taelan suspected the elements. This however, was a worrying thought, firstly, the elements, the basic make-up of the universe, rarely interfered with mortal affairs in direct form. But Taelan was not speaking of the Firelord Ragnaros, or Therazane the Earthmother, but rather of the primordial essence, the pure being of the planet itself. But then this made the riddle of Vark's behaviour even more suspicious, why would the elements deign to meddle with the fate of one small (in general not physical terms) Orc?

Then there was the matter of Arda. Since Vark had established their 'connection' with the planet Taelan had become more powerful, this was true, but also it took more effort to control that power, he could still not commune with the earth as the druids did, or bend the spirits of the land to his will, though he had never heard any but Vark put it that way. But Fire and Water had become easier to him, the flames burned brighter, and the moisture in the air cooled and froze into whatever shape he willed it. But always there was the underlying current, like a great river, the surface was fast flowing and smooth, but beneath, the water frothed and raged, ready to be released.

Taelan dreaded to think what kind of power Vark now wielded, in direct connection to the life stream of the world. He did not fear for himself, no, certainly not, he knew (though he had not told Vark he did) that Vark considered him a brother, and possibly the most influential person in Vark's life, contesting with his rather distant farther. So he did not fear that Vark would turn on him in some kind of blood fury induced attack.

Not that Taelan was worried about the crueller side of Vark either of course, the elf mused to himself as Nine selected a leather jerkin to go with his long grey hooded cloak, belting his green tunic over jerkin, a sword and knife hanging on either hip. Cruelty, he had found, was most useful. But it was a tool, nothing more, and Vark had enough sense and training not to be ruled over by his emotions. The spy selected a double curved bow of yew, unstringing it for traveling ease, he took also a thin quiver of arrows, no more than twenty, laying them next to the bow he wrapped them in a blanket he had also brought as part of his bedroll, then bound it together with the bow string.

Finally patting himself down the spy checked his concealed weaponry, and then turned to the armourer, who stepped back astonished. Taelan caught the word 'Dúnedain' but could not understand why it would be applied to Nine, the armourer stood back again, then quickly jogged out of the cave, returning a few minutes later holding a small silver broach which he pinned to Nine's cloak, it was wrought in the shape of a six pointed star.

Taelan now understood, it was the armourer's idea to make Nine out to be one of the Rangers of Arnor, this would certainly be a reason for him to be wandering about in the wilderness on his own, far from any civilisation, also it might help the so called 'Forces of Good' to trust him more quickly. Nine then picked up one of the Uruk-hai helms, a white hand and rune in white metal decorating it. The spy turned it to face him, tilting it upwards so that the eye slits faced him; he started at it for a few seconds, then tucked it under his arm, then strode toward Taelan and Vark.

"He will not defect." said Taelan quietly but firmly just before Nine reached them. Vark growled but said nothing.

Nine stood to attention in front of Vark, saluting. "Reporting for duty Warchief." He said, without his usual exuberance. He held the bundle of clothes under one arm, holding the Uruk helm in his hand, as well as a bag of food and two water skins.

Vark nodded at him, taking in his bearing, the man seemed to be able to switch personas at the drop of a metaphorical hat. Vark did not trust people like that. Yes, there was need for it, and there was a joy in deceiving ones enemies, but that was battle, and therefore different. He felt forced into this alliance with the human, not like bonds of friendship and brotherhood with Taelan, but an alliance of convince, and, as Taelan had said, there was a risk that he would turn his cloak, become a traitor, as he had to the Alliance, even if he would likely never get back to them and report his success in assassinating Vark and Taelan.

Vark glanced at Taelan, the elf seemed calm. This steadied Vark's nerves slightly, Taelan was useful like that, he had once (privately) compared him to the canaries miner's took to detect danger underground. Vark composed himself.

"Operative Nine, you will depart on your mission, return any important information immediately to Orthanc by the way we have discussed, give the enemy such information as we have discussed, fight with them, eat with them, become a trusted advisor, this is a long term assignment." Vark ordered authoritatively, being careful as to prevent any other information being given out to less trustworthy ears. He turned to two goblin warg riders, dark and squint eyed, their animals lean and swift. "Guard him with your lives, if you do not, you will both die too. But follow his commands and if he lives you will both get your rewards." The goblins nodded, knowing his seriousness because of the freeing of the wargs the morning before that had been gossiped about the caves. Both wore the livery of Saruman, a white hand stamped on the leather jerkins they wore. Little did they know that this too was a ploy on the part of the Warchief.

As Nine gave a final check of his equipment and of the riding gear on his horse Taelan sidled up to him.

"I've made sure your guards are…disposable." He murmured "Should you need any evidence to present to the King Théoden."

Nine nodded grimly to him, tightening the belly strap on his saddle. He hauled himself up by the saddle horn and took the reins. Then turned his horse to the cave's opening, and took a last look toward Vark and Taelan.

"Good Luck." The elf told him.

Nine looked back at the entrance, nodded again, then rode away.

ooooOooooOoooo

Nine paused to let some wargs through the gate, his guards looked wary, but he knew he had nothing to fear, no sooner had he come to the gate, Charlie had come bounding out of the shadows, knocking him clear off his horse, the guards thought he was being attacked, and drew their swords, but he waved them off and greeted his lupine friend.

He had swapped off the horse for the warg, the latter being more accustomed to long journeys instead of the speed he might need on the horse later, he had explained to Charlie that he was going on a journey and that he could not take him along, it was something like an eager child being denied something, but Nine assured his faithful wolf that he would be back (relatively) soon, and that in the time he was away the warg could still hang about Isengard, Nine was sure Vark could make the arrangements.

They rode along in silence, but at a reasonably brisk pace, a canter by a horse's standards, but more of a lope by a wargs, they passed over the same hills and dales that Nine had when they had freed the wargs, and they could see the evidence of the passing, the undergrowth was torn up and on the stronger and hardier plants there were large clumps of hair everywhere, torn from the coats of moulting wargs. On several occasions they were surrounded, and the guards drew their weapons, ready for a fight, but each time Charlie growled low at them, and the wargs went off, not quite tails between their legs, but still cowed enough.

The nights were spent quietly enough, and Nine looked over the map Taelan had given him, he estimated that it was at least two days travel on horses, perhaps more on wolves, that meant that they would arrive some time during the morning of the 6th November, he thought that he might be able to send a message back to Vark not to attack until he reach Edoras, or perhaps just before, that would give him more credulity in the eyes of the King. He also didn't know what the King would think, from Taelan's words it seemed he might be sympathetic to Saruman, unfortunately this would make it more difficult to persuade Théoden to organise for war, though Nine might find allies in the other Marshals, but he would have to wait and think.

There was also the issue of why Vark wished for the enemy to mobilise anyway. Strategy pointed to letting this 'Wormtongue' keep deceiving the King, leaving him vulnerable to attack. But then it would not be a fair fight.

Ah. There was the solution.

Honour.

A somewhat outmoded belief in some situations, particularly this one. If they lost that is. If not, it was a good thing. After all, even Nine had standards, he preferred military targets from civilian ones for instance, it's up to the leader of the nation you serve to decide what a 'threat' is. Some decided it was their political opponents. That sort of order always made Nine feel uneasy, there was honour in the assassination of an enemy commander, or bandit leader who terrorised the countryside, that prevented further deaths among innocents. But sneaking into some demagogue's house and murdering him in his bed for the heinous crime of criticising the establishment, that was not necessary for the stability of the kingdom.

Honour was a complicated thing.

Duty however, was not. It was Nine's duty to warn the Rohirrim about the evil presence of Isengard, to protect the (presumably) honest and good smallfolk of Rohan in their struggle against the dark Wizard Saruman.

Nine whistled as the sun rose further into the sky, his eyes drifting about the peaceful landscape. He realised something, he was content, actually doing some good, their defeat was of course inevitable, Nine had seen the Uruk-hai in sparring practice, but at least he got to warn them.

Nine smiled, remembering journeys with his comrades years ago, he took a breath and started to sing to himself in his own tongue, heedless of the strange looks of the guards behind him.

"When duty calls me I must go  
To stand and face another foe  
But part of me will always stray  
Over the Hills and faraway"

Nine's hand tensed on Charlie's mane. Memories unbidden surfaced of the smiling faces of his old unit. Luffman, took a troll arrow to the neck in Stranglethorn. Yates, butchered by ogres at Stromgarde.

Then the last face came to him.

Jane.

Nine kicked his heels into Charlie's flanks, urging the animal forward as fast as possible, letting the riding take his thoughts.


	13. The Tale of Fáer Briunnìn

_On the Question of Magic:_

_(Here follows a page of theory about Ardan magic, skip down if you want to, it's not that important to the story, but might clarify a few things)_

_Fantasywind: Vark's statement was made with imperfect information, the protagonists of stories are not always right, this is an instance of it, furthermore, the protagonists only know about some of the things that we as readers do, wait and see about the issue of magic, that will be explored later in greater detail, but for now I'll address a few of your complaints._

_In Arda, there are many different species which are intrinsically magical, for instance, a cave troll cannot exist in a biological sense, this is because when you scale up what is effectively a hairless ape it becomes more dense be an order of magnitude, to explain this further, really big (particularly bipedal) things such as a troll or a giant simply wouldn't have the muscle mass to move at more than a quick shuffle, if the cave troll we see in _Fellowship of the Ring_ is anything to go by, what should have happened if it tried to tackle something, or even lift that club it has, would be that the troll's body would collapse in a heap. _

_Similarly, elves are seen as being faster and stronger than normal men, in _Two Towers_ Legolas moves 'quicker than sight', elves are also immortal, this means either their biology is fundamentally different from Humans, or that their strength is mystical in nature, I am inclined to believe the later, given than basically every hominid in Middle Earth can interbreed, meaning their genetics are close enough to merge, without their abnormal abilities getting in the way. _

_Therefore, in the case of elves, eagles or trolls, the muscles and bones would have to be incredibly strong to enable them to move as quickly as they do in the case of elves, or actually move at all, in the case of trolls and eagles. Given that no evidence is given for this in the books or films, I conclude that some mystical force helps them do this._

_Now, that fairly long discussion of possible genetic theories of Arda was leading into something, the people of Arda are not magical in the same sense as those of Azeroth, my explanation for this was that the Titans did not interfere with the planet, as they did with Azeroth. _

_Azerothians of almost every species can harness magical forces, be this arcane magic, shamanism, the Light or fel magic. Ardans however, are intrinsically magical, magic is at their base level, this allows them to do things they couldn't do without magic, eg, the trolls being able to stand, elves moving quickly, and dragons flying without gravity taking more of an interest in them._

_Ever since about level 20 in WoW the character you're playing is wearing a set of 'magic' armour, it's a pretty casual thing, even random farmers have magical stuff just lying around to give to adventurers, this isn't so in the LotR 'verse, magical items are few and far between, Narsil 'flames' as Elendil wields it, the Dwarves have 'runes of power' on their doors, and Shadowfax can run at incredible speeds. However, none of these are overtly magical, the Dwarves' runes are obviously a normal thing for them, Shadowfax is explained as being 'one of the Mearas' and therefore special, and the Númenóreans can make incredible things anyway, it's like their thing._

_Galadriel explains it quite well with this quote: _'For this is what your folk would call magic. I believe; though I do not understand clearly what they mean; and they seem also to use the same word of the deceits of the Enemy. But this, if you will, is the magic of Galadriel. Did you not say that you wished to see Elf-magic? '_– Galadriel clearly considers 'elf-magic' as a normal everyday things, and it's widely accepted that elves are just elves, you can't really explain them. The "Magic of Galadriel" is obviously just her, doing her own thing, rather than what Taelan might call magic._

_So, the statement "Magic doesn't exist here." Was not referring to the unnatural things that abode in Middle Earth, but rather that the fel, and indeed, arcane forces don't exist on Middle Earth._

_Think as well about how a warrior/rouge/hunter can craft magical items without themselves being magical? How does someone who uses Rage as a resource make a pair of +3 Agility trousers out of a few bars of metal? Same with enchanting. Not magic, it's a profession, means that the most non magically inclined barbarian can craft 'magical' items out of fundamentally mundane matreials._

_Oh, and also, I know Sauron isn't a big eye, he does have physical shape, but not many people in Middle Earth know that, this is another example of imperfect information. Since no-one's really been in Mordor, or seen Sauron in person, I should think people assume he's the big eye._

_Feel free to send me a PM if you disagree or have any questions._

_In other news, thanks the other people who followed/favourite _Liberation, _here's the next chapter._

**Liberation **

**Chapter 12**

**By FractiousDay**

The Lady Éowyn drew her cloth across a mail coat, water streamed off it as she cleaned the dirt away, the rust would be taken care of later, along with the other coats sitting by the small stool at the edge of the Snowbourn. The river gurgled along, issuing from a spring in the hill of Edoras, running down into a pool, which when full, released water into the river. The Snowbourn ran down the plain, circling in a wide arc toward the south-east, part way down the river it bended greatly, and in this way sand and gravel was deposited at the apex of the bend, whilst the inside was eroded.

The rings rasped and ground together, and the cloth was dipped in the bucket again, then Éowyn dragged it across the cloth once again. Small brown rivulets ran down the coat, whilst further up, pure, cleaner water sparkled as it hung in droplets. She held it up to the sun, the morning air chilling her hands. Judging it reasonably clean, she let it drop into a barrel by her side, it _clinked_ on the other pieces of metal. Then, using a short spade, Éowyn took sand from the riverbank, and filled the balance of the space inside the barrel. She motioned behind her and two small boys who had been playing in the grass came up and hefted the lid, one using a mallet to secure it, the other holding it steady. The two then toppled the barrel, and rolled it slowly along the beach, the sand inside it wearing away any rust on the armour within.

Éowyn set her cloth down and stood, walking up the bank into the long grass of the western plains. She glanced behind her, shielding her eyes from the sun rising in the east, a hunting party were coming in, dragging the carcass of a large animal on a stretched made from their spears lashed together. The Lady walked a short distance, warming herself from the coldness of the water. She heard laughter behind her and smiled at the innocence of the two youths.

Éowyn stood there for several minutes, looking west. Snow dusted the peaks of the White Mountains to her left, it gleamed in the sun, and the plains were bright with the light. She saw a speck moving off west, traveling parallel to the Mountains and between them and the river. She watched it, a rider it seemed, coming back to Edoras after scouting perhaps. As she watched the rider came closed very quickly, he seemed to be galloping; eventually she could make out the figure of a cloaked man, his loose clothes streaming behind him in the wind. The rider made directly for the ford and to cross the river, his horse slowing as he came to the bank. On the other side, Éowyn stood and raised her hand in welcome, the rider saw her, and began frantically motioning for her to get back, safe on the far side of the river. She wondered at his actions, but at that moment the man threw back his hood and drew a long sword, wheeling his horse about and facing back where he had come from.

Then a warg-riding Orc came over the bank, the warg standing at the lip, teeth bared and snarling at the rider. The Orc gave a command and it leapt forward, the Orc's scimitar meeting the rider's sword with a clang. The warg snapped at the horse and the two warriors fought, the first rider was slowly pushed back toward the river, the water running over his mount's fetlocks. Suddenly the horse stumbled, its hoof slipping on a stone. The rider was pitched sideways, into the water, the Orc jumped from his own mount, intent on finishing the man as his warg chased the horse away from the battle. The Orc sprang again at the man, but the stroke was parried by the man's sword, and the scimitar was trapped, the man shoved forward with his shoulder, bowling the Orc over. Then the man went on the offensive, pulling a dagger from his belt with his free hand he dispatched the Orc, the rose, his dagger buried in the Orc's chest. He gave a shout to attract the running warg's attention, then stood ready in the centre of the river for its charge. It came forward, and came at him, but he rolled, the water slashing and slashed at the animal's flank, the warg yelped and retreated, but the man had reached it, and with a single stroke clove its head from its neck.

Éowyn went to the fighter's side, ready to thank him for his heroism, but he had already run elsewhere himself, to his horse, and drew from his saddle there a bow which he then strung, then he went to the far bank, a brace of arrows clutched in his other hand. He planted them in the ground, then taking one he turned to Éowyn.

"Back Lady! There is another still about." He called, but then cursed, and drew the bowstring to his ear, sighting on another warg rider that he noticed coming toward them. The second was coming closer, but still out of bowshot, or so Éowyn believed, but evidently the man thought differently. He raised the bow and loosed, the arrow arcing through the morning air, then, traveling more than five hundred paces, it plunged unerringly into the rider's neck, he fell from the warg, and the animal bolted. The man stood ready for some deception, or other enemies to appear, but none did so, and at length he lowered the bow.

As the man unstrung his weapon, Éowyn looked at him more closely. His hair first was bound at his neck, and he had a short beard, both were a dark brown or black colour, and his eyes grey. He was dressed sombrely, a green cloak over a leather jerkin, bound about his shoulders with a pin wrought like a rayed star. The man waded into the Snowbourn, and pulled his dagger from the Orc, washing the blood from it in the river. He replaced it in a sheath at his lower back, and retrieved his sword from where it had fallen, sheathing it also. He then came back across the river to Éowyn, and, bowing, introduced himself.

"Greetings Lady," he said, "I am called Nine and am come out of the North, and have been pursued by these foul things", (here he paused to kick the carcass of the warg)"for many days. I had hoped to reach Edoras as soon as possible, is that city there Edoras? For I am only recently come here, and a stranger in these lands."

Éowyn was pleased by his courteous speech, and answered him in kind. "I thank you Nine for your bravery, and for my protection. I am called the Lady Éowyn and abide in Meduseld, the golden hall in yonder Edoras, the city which you seek." Éowyn paused, "If I might ask, what business have you in Rohan?"

Nine's face fell, "That be best left to the King's ears Lady, but, if I may catch my horse, I shall explain some of it to you."

Éowyn was confused at the suspicious behaviour, but followed after Nine as he walked over to his now grazing horse. It shied away from him and ran a little way away every time he got close. Éowyn then went to it and calmed it with words, stroking the animal's mane and flanks to calm it.

"Thank you." Said Nine, "He is a good beast, but frights easily."

Then Éowyn heard the thundering of hooves, and turned, no doubt the guards of the city had seen the skirmish and come to help. Though late was their coming, if Nine had been any less skilled a fighter he might have been overmastered, and fallen to the Orc's blade.

Of the score or so of guards the leader wore a long while horsetail as a crest on his helm and Éowyn recognised her brother, Éomer.

The riders skidded up and Éomer dismounted, handing his red banded spear to another rider Éowyn did not recognise.

"One warg escaped, it was out of range before I killed him, but the rider is dead." Reported Nine.

Éomer nodded, and motioned for some of his riders to go off in the direction the warg had escaped to. Then he turned to his sister.

"You are unhurt?" he asked, checking for injuries.

Éowyn smiled at her brother's protectiveness, "I am, but only thanks to the Lord Nine." She said. Éowyn did not know if he was actually a lord, but his bearing was gracious and lordly regardless.

Éomer turned to Nine, holding out a hand, the man grasped it, gripping firmly. "I thank you." He said, "I am called Éomer, Third Marshal of Riddermark, who are you and what are you doing in this land?" he asked in the Common tongue, rather than the speech of Rohan.

Though his sword was not drawn, Éowyn could tell her brother was distrustful of Nine.

"My name is Nine, I am a ranger out of the North, I seek the King in haste." Replied Nine

"But for what purpose?" asked Éomer proudly, leaning back on his heels, his hand resting on his sword's hilt. "It is the will of Théoden King has decreed that none may ride without his leave in Rohan save those who know our tongue and are our friends. You clearly do not speak the tongue, and you are a stranger in these lands. Come now, what is your errand to the King of the Mark?"

Nine began to open is mouth to speak, but Éowyn overruled him. "Come brother, the Lord Nine is weary from his battle, and his story is no doubt a long one, why not let him give his tale within the city."

Éomer saw the sense in this, and nodded to Nine, then remounted. Then reaching down for Éowyn he pulled her up in front of him and the troop rode back to the city, Éowyn noticed that two other riders had the two boys who had been helping her clean the armour on their saddles also. They rode back at a gentle pace, for there was no rush, and there was no reason to push the horses, for the Rohirrim were kind to such beasts.

At the gates the door wards sprung apart to admit them, and they passed under the wooden gatehouse and watchtower. As they continued through the city some folk stopped to stare at the bright mail on the riders, noting the dripping figure at the end of the line, clad in greys and greens.

Eventually they reached the highest tier of the city, the barracks of the soldiery contained within Edoras, mostly men of Éomer's own household. Leaving the horses to grooms the group split, Éowyn, Éomer, Nine and two others went to Éomer's rooms in the hall, whilst the others who still had duty on the walls went back to their posts, calling farewells over their shoulders. Éomer unbuckled his sword, and Nine too laid his own weapons against the doors of the hall, for gear of war was forbidden within the dwelling places of the Rohirrim as custom long set down.

Sitting at table just as the meat was being set to board they proceeded to the furthest end of the hall and to the place of honour, as was custom in the Mark, the central seat was reserved for the King, should he deign to visit. Éomer sat to the right, his sister beside him, whilst the two other riders drew up seats either side of Nine and opposite Éomer.

Éowyn noticed Nine had brought a bundle from his horse, and it was stashed under his chair, about the size of a head. Éomer took bread and a little cheese, and a draught from a mug on the table, then motioned for Nine to speak.

Nine also drank, draining the vessel, then wiped his lips on a sleeve.

"My tale begins in the North and West, on the far side of the Misty Mountains. We were hunting Orcs, myself and a ranger of the Dúnedain named Fáer Briunnìn, he walked about that land helping folk as was his wont, and his duty, I had followed him for many months, for I was of the North myself, and had some kinship with him. We came upon a village in the mountains that was oft-times raided by the Orcs that dwelt in the Misty Mountains, Fáer had been there some time, but for my part I had only recently arrived."

Nine paused for breath, and a piece of bread. Chewing, he swallowed and spoke again: "Arriving I greeted my friend warmly, and we stayed there some time, sometimes going out into the mountains with some men of that land to scout. Soon we found many tracks of iron-shod feet, larger than those of Orcs which we had come upon and fought before. This worried us, and Fáer feared some knew monster out of the black caves in the hills. We tracked the beast for many days, and in a clearing by a running stream we came upon him. It was a troll we thought, but of a lesser stature and more intelligent, Fáer sprang upon him and I pinned him with many arrows, but we were overmastered!" The troll-thing scorned our assault, and though it bled from many wounds, it leapt at Fáer and bore him down, seemingly to bite at him with its terrible fangs. Seeing his plight I myself ran forward and hewed at its neck with my sword, but its hide turned and notched the blade, and the troll struck me, sending me flying across the clearing, but my assault gave the ranger time to strike, driving his blade into the troll's vitals. He rolled away and came to stand beside me, the thing roared at us but we stood firm. It assaulted us quickly and made to bear me down as it had Fáer, but I too struck at it, and black blood wet the grass."

As Nine told his tale, the men of the Household of Éomer came to stand behind him at the bottom of the short steps at the bottom of the dais. They listened and cheered as Nine retold his battle with the valiant Man of the West, and Éowyn knew this chronicle would spread through the halls before the sun was set upon the golden hall of Meduseld.

"But at the last the troll sprang for me, I stood, hoping for a final blow to slay the thing and save my friend, but as I struck my friend pushed me aside, taking the blow himself."

Many of the men of Edoras more involved in the story made cries of despair then.

"When I rose, I saw the foul creature stooping over the body of my friend, I took up my dagger, for my sword was broken, and struck at him again, eager to revenge my comrade. My blade took the troll's eye, and finally he fled from me, making back into the woods. My first thought was to pursue him, but then I looked back and saw Fáer lying upon the grass, dyed black with the troll's blood. I went to him, and found that he was not dead as I had though, but yet lived. Happy was I then, but my joy fled as I looked upon his wounds, for though the Men of the West are said to have great skill in healing with herbs and such, I, alas, am not of that folk. But Fáer lay dying even as I tarried, and looking to him I knew he would not long survive his hurts. And with his last breath he spoke to me:"

"'Nine' he said 'mighty was thine strike, but I fear I will not join thee in thy last combat' he laughed then, and his breath slowed to a rattle, 'Take now my sword, for thine is sundered, and take too mine star, that is the mark of mine people, for thee are as a brother to me, go forth, and continue mine work, I lay this duty upon thee.'"

"Then great sorrow was upon me, for my friend was dead, fallen to the strikes of a cowardly beast. But I did as he bid, for a fury on vengeance was upon me now, and, taking up his sword and the star of his people, I made off in search of the trail of our enemy, and finding him making for the mountains I made after him. Long was that chase, but at last I came upon him at the edge of a great cliff, and swiftly set upon him. And it was he this time who was overmastered, for I felt strength flow through me, and at the last, I dealt him a great blow, and cast him over the precipice."

A cheer went up from the assembled men, and Éomer leant forward in his seat.

"Weary then was I, and back down the mountain I went. Later, I discovered men living in that place had heard out combat from afar, and went swiftly to the clearing, they then took Fáer's body and bore him away from that place, lest the beast return they thought. Then when I came upon them and told of the tale and they looked upon me in wonder, for my injuries were heavy, yet I had travelled many leagues following the troll. We then buried Fáer beneath a great holly tree, some miles from the village."

As Nine ended Éomer sprang from his seat, "Mighty was the fallen!" he cried, "And meet was his ending, and a horn shall be raised later for him." Many warriors pounded the tables in a rolling chorus that shook the rafters.

Nine nodded, "Verily, I would have that he lived. But, alas, it was not so."

Éomer sat again, "But then Lord, why should you come to be here? I do not begrudge your presence certainly, for rumour of war in the East has come to us from Gondor, and the land is unsettled." Murmurs of agreement came from the tables at that, and Éowyn herself thought to the fate of her own mother, long years before. "For a Lord such as you would be a help unlooked for the Sons of Eorl."

Nine nodded magnanimously, but Éowyn thought she saw something flash across his eyes. "I thank you for your kind words, and stay I would, for here my duty falls now." He said.

Éomer puzzled. "But what duty now binds you Lord?"

Nine sighed, "After I buried my friend, I rested near the mountains for a time. But six weeks ago, sudden doubt came upon me. 'Whence came the beast?' thought I, therefore I travelled back to the sight of the battle. As I came once again upon the thing's tracks I noticed there were many of them, as if the beast had been about that place long. But this was not to be believed, we fought it and drove it off, and it came not again. I then was troubled, was there more of these beasts I asked myself, and fearing that it was so; I followed once again the tracks. They lead down south, along the foothills of the Misty Mountains. For many days I travelled all alone in the wilderness, following the trail, stopping only to hunt and to sleep. Weary was that journey, for my prey was swift, but eventually I came upon a camp of sorts on the borders of Dunland. The land was dark there, and the trees fearful, like the calm before a storm."

Éowyn thought she felt the hall grow colder, and the wind swept around it like a gale, howling about the rushes on the roof. Many men grumbled at the name of Dunland, but were quieted as Nine continued:

"As I crept closer I saw a great gathering of men, Orcs there were to, but few of them, and they bore a strange badge on their armour that I had not seen before. At the edge of the camp I soon learned all I could, for the sentries did not speak with one another. And I decided then I must infiltrate the camp."

Éomer laughed, "Doughty is the man who will walk into the enemy's stronghold with a smile upon his face!"

"Truly," replied Nine, "But I did not smile, for it was no child's game, and I barely survived. I am dark of hair, as many of the Dunlendings, and that helped me some, but before the moon had risen in the sky I was almost found out. I came upon a council of sorts. There stood my prey, a great troll-like beast, like to the one I had slain, but unlike, for this one appeared less tall, and less fierce. It spoke to, and I endured long with the sound of that Black tongue there. At the council there was the troll, many chiefs and champions of the Dunlanders, and three large Orcs. Man-high they were, and their armour and weapons were fell. With them stood an old man, hooded and cloaked, and he spoke both the Dunland tongue and the Black Speech, of which I could not understand. After long speech the old man held forth a dagger, and the Dunland chief cut his palm upon it. Then the old man gave unto the chief a standard. It was black, upon a black staff, and emblazoned upon it was a white hand."

Cries of dismay filled the hall, Éomer sprang again to his feet, knocking over his chair and upsetting the food on the table. Shouting from the lower tables overwhelmed Éomer's own oaths and Éowyn gasped. Nine only was unaffected, sitting as he had in his seat.

"This is evil news!" said Éomer after the noise had died down. "Gandalf Greyhame came to us many weeks ago and brought that news, but it was not to be believed, for many a day had Saruman the White been our friend and ally."

Nine drew breath but Éowyn spoke first, "Speak not the words of Wormtounge in this hall brother." She warned. Many of the Rohirrim agreed with her, and some directed looks toward Éomer.

"Nay, nay" he said, holding up his hands, "Surprise it was only, not disbelief, for no doubt the Lord Nine speaks truly, but it is a heavy blow to us, that one so mighty has fallen so far to consort with Orcs and trolls and other such beasts." Éomer sat again, a hall-guard behind him having picked up his chair. He gestured for Nine to continue. But Éowyn was certain that she had seen something in his eyes then, a sense of triumph, but also of irony, she say his lips twitch upwards in a smile.

Nine first nodded to Éowyn, thanking her, then lifted the bundle of cloth from beside his chair, "First Lord," he said to Éomer, "Perhaps it would be best to close the doors of the hold, for if there are others such as this craven 'Wormtounge', we would not want them to overhear."

Éomer nodded, "Let it be so." And the doors were closed, the guards outside drawing them by the large inlaid handles.

"After I saw the banner, I too thought of the Wizard Saruman, and looking upon the standard and the old man, guessed that it was the man himself. Therefore I purposed to get away from that place as quickly as I could, for I thought of only one people who the combined powers of Orthanc and Dunland would attack, the Sons of Eorl in their green fields." Nine was forced again to pause as the assembled men clamoured. "I took a horse from the paddock, and it came willingly, for I do not think the Dunlendings to be kind to beasts such as he, and I was thankful for the speed a mount would give me. But then, at the edge of the camp, I was discovered! I made away down the mountains with all the speed I could, pursued by a score of warg riders, hiding in a defile I killed two in an ambush, and then fled southwards again, soon I came to the Fords of Isen, and slew many with sword and bow and dagger there in the swirling water. The black blood wept into the stream, and it ran brown for a mile. Then some made off back down the trail, and I was glad, for there was still four riders to contend with, and both myself and my good horse were tired."

"Would that the King had not ordered the patrols back to Edoras." Lamented Éomer, "If not for that your battle would not have been as perilous, for a troop of riders would have ridden out of the hills to your aid!"

"I doubt it not Lord," replied Nine, "but I was hard pressed, as I rode from the Fords to Edoras I shot two more from the saddle, and upon sighting the golden roof of Meduseld from afar I rejoiced. But coming across the Snowbourn I came upon the Lady," he said, nodding to Éowyn, "Then I knew I must needs turn and fight, for I had only two arrows left, and my quiver was almost spent. Had that not been, I would have ridden in sight of the walls of Edoras and there fought them, so that the Rohirrim might have made a sortie out and given aid, but alas, I could not have left a Lady to fair to perish under an Orc scimitar. So there I made my stand, on the banks of the Snowbourn, the pure water washing about my feet."

Éowyn smiled under his praise, "And such a battle brother," she said in a loud voice as she stood, "The Orc came down the back and leapt from his wolf, and the Lord Nine killed him in the shallows, then the warg came at him also, but Nine cleaved it's head from its neck in a single strike!"

The men pounded the tables again; some with the pommels of their eating knives, some with their fists; even Éomer and the men of the guards join in, clashing spear against shield.

"Then the Lord stood on the bank, and drawing a great bow of yew he shot at the other rider." Spoke Éowyn, "Such a shot, greater than four hundred paces across the plain, into the throat of the rider, and such was the terror that was on it, his warg fled before his throat too should be pierced."

The noise rose again, shaking even the rafters, dust fell from them because of the vibrations of the music, and someone in the hall blew a battle horn, summoning the men of Edoras to fight, luckily its noise was masked by the cheering, or there would have been a great clamour outside the hall as well as in.

Nine smiled at the praise of Éowyn, and at the honour the men of the Rohirrim were doing him, he stood, and taking the bundle again, he spoke:

"The deed was but the least I could do, and happy was I to have done a service to the Great Lords of Rohan, even as I was doing a service to he who had fallen." He paused then, his head cast down.

Éowyn raised up a horn from the table,

"Bealocwealm hafath freone frecan forth onsended  
Giedd sculon singan glaomen sorgiende on Meduseld"

She spoke, the Rohir chant for the dead, that in the common tongue ran:

"An evil death has set forth the noble warrior  
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels in Meduseld"

And the men of Edoras assembled there took up their horns and drunk too, repeating the words in their rolling speech. Then Nine continued:

"I thank you again Lady Éowyn, for though I do not speak your tongue, I know its message." And he too raised a horn and drunk. "But to raise a horn was not my purpose here, I bring a token to give the Lords of the Mark, and also, if they would have it, I offer my sword to."

Another cheer went up from the men, and Éomer turned to Nine, "I would have it gladly, for already you have done service to mark you a knight of the land of Rohan, but what token do you bring?" he asked, looking warily at the bundle.

"Only this." Replied Nine, and cast aside the cloth, letting it fall to the rushes on the floor, and holding up what he had carried long.

It was an Orc helm, small, for Orcs were smaller than men generally, but atop it in a white paint, already crusting away, was a white hand.

He gave it to Éomer, the Third Marshal accepting it with unsteady hands, seeming not to accept the declaration of war Saruman had unwittingly made. The men of Rohan gathered around the steps, none sat at the benches now, and the guards that normally stood at the walls came forward also, craning their necks to see. Éomer finally raised the help above his head with a hand, showing it to all, and the men raised their voices again, this time in anger. No talk was this, nor report unverified, Nine had brought them physical proof, and now the Men of Rohan were wroth.

"This is a sore blow." Said Éomer, "and even in the King's Council now we must now be wary, the men of Rohan must be prepared for sudden war, but not arouse the suspicious of the Worm."

"This is so." Replied Nine, and took the help from Éomer's unresisting hands, tossing it down the stairs to be examined by the men, he then took his seat again. "My Lord, let all the folk that hold with you, and hold with the King go about and tell the land of this treachery, for if the gather I saw was true, many people's unite against Rohan."

"It shall be!" cried Éomer, jumping to his feet again, and again knocking over his chair, though no one saw, the guard standing behind him rolled his eyes and wearily maneuverered the chair into place again. "Let you folk go forth, and take with you the token, speak only to those loyal to Rohan, and let it also be said that the Lord Nine shall now be one of the Rohirrim, a knight of the land, for he has done great service to us. Forth Eorlingas!"

And the men went about the town that day, lighting the fires of a conspiracy in the people's hearts.


	14. Behold the Horned King

_Next chapter, and another literary discussion, skip if you want._

_Another thing that came up in a conversation with _fantasywind _was the relationship between wargs and people (people as in anything reasonably intelligent – humans, Orcs, dwarves, elves, ents and possibly eagles) said relationship with be touched upon in further chapters, along with a number of other things. However now, I will address a different issue, _fantasywind _pointed, with many many examples (well researched by the way) of the different uses of magic on Arda, as a counter of this I would like to give my view of some of the narrative of the _Lord of the Rings _universe. _

_Namely, it is a historical narrative._

_This means that it is greatly romanticised, similarly to many 'period' King Arthur stories, one example of this being a collection of stories available for free on Kindle by Sir James Knowles, I myself have said collection. Stories such as these and to a lesser extent LotR are very systematic in their telling. For instance, scenery is described in great detail but characters not so much, for instance, Éomer is introduced in the books very briefly, being a 'tall, clean limbed man with a horsetail plume'. Similarly, virtually every character ever mentioned in LotR either 'springs, bounds or leaps' about, they do not sprint, or run anywhere. Example: 'Aragorn sprang away through the trees' or 'Éomer leapt from his mount'._

_These examples of vocabulary show the genre of the books. Instead of being an action/adventure story, they very focused on dialogue. For instance, Tolkein's writings tend toward characters describing events, rather than something happening and responding to it. _

_For instance; Tolkien would write –_

"_What is that thing over there Legolas, is it a large group of people? Wait no, I see it now, it is in fact something else entirely." _

_Whereas more modern and perhaps less institutionally educated and amateur writers would be more along the lines of – _

"_Hey what's that?" he said, *description of event* "*response of characters to events*". _

_Again, this was all leading to something, because the books are so romanticised the readers may be deceived. Though they are indeed a historical document (technically it's the Red Book of Westmarch) because of the genre we make many assumptions as the audience. Undoubtedly some of the things are fictionally true, for instance there was no doubt an Orc chieftain in the Chamber of Records in Moria who wounded Frodo with a spear. However, some other things are probably exaggerated, for instance according to the books after Sauron's downfall/destruction virtually every soldier in his employ 'threw themselves upon their swords' or 'slew themselves in their terror' and other such dramatic actions, that's 60,000 suicides. This is somewhat doubtful from a military perspective, however is prevalent in virtually every major battle on Middle Earth, at the Hornburg, the Morannon, Dagorlad and the Pelenor the forces of Evil outnumbered Good at least ten to one, in the War of Wrath there were millions of Orcs compared to the hundreds of thousands of elves and men. This is one of the aspects of LotR that I seek to address with _Liberation. _To make my own story reasonably realistic, at least, as realistic as a work of fiction in which trees wander about singing with tiny people can be._

_Therefore, Evil will occasionally get a power up, like Good do in the books. If you look at the continuity of the books, nothing really changes for the worst for Good. The Fellowship only loses one member (but gets a massive level up for Gandalf), Théodred dies, but then again we never get introduced to him before Gandalf magic's him back to health, Denethor also dies, but was clearly coming to the end of his sanity, likewise Théoden was very old by the standards of his time for going into battle, so it was no surprise for him to be eventually killed. _

_Meanwhile, Evil is completely destroyed. All important characters die, all strongholds previously held by Evil are eventually (within a few years after Sauron's defeat) destroyed and there's happiness abounding. Oh and everyone gets married _

_That's kinda unfair?_

_For a start Orcs never have their situation resolved. In the epilogue section of the last books there's a passage about how the various nations like Umbar and Dunland who were defeated eventually send emissaries to Gondor to discuss terms, but this doesn't happen with the Orcs. If you'd been systematically hunted and vilified for ten thousand years, I'm pretty sure you would go with the first person to promise you power, as Sauron does. Maybe the behaviour of 'Good' is justified, but they might have resolved the situation without the inevitable 'kill them all'. But then again, if you've committed genocide against someone's people there isn't a need to take an emissary from them. It's not even as if you can use the whole 'they are animals' speech that conquerors usually use to justify their actions. We know Orcs have civilisation, as much civilisation as you can have when you're being hunted for sport. They have a sense of art for instance, as Aragorn finds a decorated knife in Two Towers._

_Further examination into the 'Good' races shows them to be somewhat suspect as well. I'm not sure if this was a subtle bit of alternate interpretation by Tolkien or not, but the Men of Gondor particularly have conversation about how the downfall of their city is due to 'the mingling of lesser bloodlines in greater houses.'_

_So, the situation with 'Good' is that tall, blonde haired men who don't like women fighting, helped by their friends who dislike those of 'lesser bloodlines' and who imprisoned an entire race in a ghetto by building fortresses around it so said race couldn't get out._

_Remind you of anyone?_

_Then again, could just be a coincidence._

_P.S. Yes I'm exaggerating, but the point still stands. _

**Liberation**

**Chapter 13**

**By FractiousDay**

The sun shone on the golden roof of Meduseld. The orb moved down into the west, its light gilding the peaks of Ered Nimrais. On the shadowed western face of the hall a shape moved up the wall. On closer examination it seemed a man, climbing unhurriedly up the wall. He hauled himself over the edge of the gutter and rolled onto the golden rushes. Then taking up a seat against the decorative gable he stretched his legs out, crossing them and folding his arms across his chest, preserving his heat in the face of chill winds blowing across the plains. He drew his hood over his head, and brushed a strand of dark hair out of his eyes. Then the man settled back into his position, allowing the last rays of sun to warm him.

The man heard a fluttering behind him, and craned his neck back.

"Afternoon." Nine said to the crow perching behind him. It 'warked' at him.

"Be like that then." He said, reclining back into his position. Wind whipped at his hood, the peak fluttering before his eyes, hair escaping from underneath it and falling across his forehead. The last few days had been…busy. First, the frantic planning and scheming with the woefully naïve Rohirrim, most of who had no idea even of spying and surveillance, one rider, apparently of the King's Guard, had proposed that the group simply go before the King and bring charges against his traitorous councillor. Given that Nine had made up the whole story about a troll and the gathering with the Dunlendings he found it amusing that they were so easy to go along with him. In fact, the only true part of the story was of the sword, though admittedly it was looted from a corpse rather than bequeathed upon dying breath.

Their little (technically) seditious meeting took place in the back rooms of the Hall of the Third Marshal, which in the Riddermark language was named 'Hrolfinala' and was between himself, Háma the Guard, Éomer, several captains under Éomer, and the King's son, Théodred, who joined them later, having heard about Nine from some other men in the hall previously. Nine's impression of Théodred was of a child, not in body, but more so in mind and thought. This impression came from the first conversation Nine had had with Théodred, and talks with Éomer about him. A day after Nine's recounting of his journey there came a hammering at the door, hands went to weapons, only knives, but good enough at a push, and soon a tall, thin fellow in a gaudy shirt tumbled in. After picking himself up he stood as tall as he could, Nine particularly noting his short chin, and the eyes that looked down a long nose at them. After a nudge from Éomer he bowed, and was introduced to the newcomer as 'The Lord Nine, A Ranger out of the North'. It eventually turned out that this gangly fellow was the King's Son, and was incredibly bored because Master Gríma would not allow him out of the city upon hunts, which were the popular thing for young fellows about the city to go on. Nine almost had to restrain himself from laughing at this point, Edoras was definitely not a city, there were barely four thousands contained within, maybe a few hundred in the surrounding fields of small villages.

Edoras itself was made up of several tiers, the highest and most important, mainly held the golden hall of Meduseld, then descending there was another level cramped with the halls and longhouses of the various court nobles and retainers of the King, then another tier for the richest citizens, craftsmen and merchants mainly, with a predominance of horse breeders. The last tier was set at the base of the rocky hill, and held the majority of the population, mostly based in wood and mud hovels, thatched with straw, these spilled out toward a large wall, made from tree trunks sharpened and driven into the ground, capped with a row of thorns and sharp vines. Overall, it was not a defensible city, and would quickly fall to fire, aerial attack, or even a short siege. Nine guessed that the strategy of Rohan was to meet your foe honourably on the field and charge him down, unless of course, your foe had pikes, fortifications, massed archers, or indeed, anything that would break a charge and keep it in disorder long enough so that infantry could engage it.

Nine was eventually assigned in the second tier to Éomer's service as an advisor of sorts, and was billeted near Éomer's hall in a barracks. Éomer also provided him with new garb, including several finely made tunics and a cape. They made for a colourful ensemble, chiefly composed of green with a gold trim in the shape of artful knots. Nine thanked him for it, and took to wearing a darker variant, with silver decoration, with his own leather jerkin on top, thus providing some protection, as well as a place to hide his knives.

On day three of his arrival Nine was brought before Théoden King, and introduced as a traveller, the meeting was uninteresting, though Nine did get a good look at the 'Worm' that was mentioned by Éowyn, he was a short, pale and wan man, with lank dark hair and a hooked nose. There was also a puzzling and somewhat unsettling lack of eyebrows on his face that made him look like a started fish. Said Worm had made a short and ironic speech about the dangers of possible spies before sneering at Nine, whereas Éowyn welcomed him happily, glowing in a silver dress in the dark hall.

Day four was a hunt, they could find nothing to kill, but Nine shared some stories of his own expeditions with his new friends, some of them were actually true. However, soon after noon one of the trackers had come across the a prints of a wolf pack, and advised going back, reasoning that their party was still small and could be overcome by a large number of animals.

Several more days had passed in similar fashion and Nine had taken to sitting on top of Meduseld to watch the sun go down, he found it relaxing, a change from the deceptions he held up as a mask for the rest of the time. Therefore, as he was now, he made the slow climb up the wall, then the rushes, then settled into his seat on the ridge of the hall. At length he heard the familiar clash of steel in the training yard below him. The noise had puzzled him on the first days, he being unsure why someone was fighting in full armour in a city, apparently absent cause, however, Nine had upon further investigation revealed that it was a training area at the back of the hall. He assumed that the person training was of noble birth, as they had access to the area in the first place. However, on the second day, to his surprise, he realised that the soldier was a woman. Of course, Nine was not sexist, in fact, women often made better operatives than men, as they were still seen as many cultures as vulnerable, and therefore targets were easier to eliminate. But from what Nine had observed from the local culture, a fighting woman would be frowned upon. Therefore, a highborn woman, fighting using a sword and shield. It was a mystery. An easily solvable one to be sure, but still a mystery.

OOOoooOOO

"So as I understand it, we have four thousand ready to march?" Vark asked.

"Yes Warchief" replied Lurtz, but hesitated.

"Speak"

"My two hundred scouts are the only battle worthy Uruk-hai in Isengard, if you marched the rest out to battle they would all be killed, they have no discipline, no grasp of tactics, more importantly, there are no officers, no chiefs." Replied Lurtz

"This will be a problem." Said Vark.

Lurtz nodded.

Vark sighed and leant out onto the balcony, they had found what looked like a conference room, deep in the wall of Pit One, looking out over the main training ground, a large square space levelled long ago into a rough plain. Several hundred Uruk-hai shot bolts from crossbows into straw filled dummies on the other side of the range. Goblins and other smaller breeds of Orc scampered about retrieving the bolts that missed, then made a wide circle back around to deliver them to the crossbowmen. Several of the goblins lay dead, having been inattentive and been struck by a bolt.

"What we need, is a command structure." Vark said, turning back to his Second. "Pass me that paper and a quill."

Lurtz did so, and Vark delicately took the stylus in his huge fingers, then dipped it in the ink pot and began writing. He stayed there for several minutes, often pausing and crossing out, but finally standing back, and gesturing to the document. Lurtz went forward and looked, his eyes drifting down columns and figures.

"Command is too centralised, but that is always the way with Orcs, the strongest lead, that cannot be helped, but centralisation tends toward micromanagement, which is not efficient. That is what we must avoid. I do not want my commanders asking me to check their every decision, Orcs are strong, and after all, we're not humans." Vark said with a smile.

Lurtz ginned, yellow fangs bared.

"Twenty Five Uruk-hai to a troop, a Sergeant to command, ten troops to a company, a Captain to command, ten companies in an Battalion, a Commander to command." Vark paused from his reading, "Do you think we need a different name for the 'Commander'?" he asked.

"Perhaps later, once the rest is done?" suggested Lurtz.

Vark shrugged. "A battalion being two and a half thousand will be sufficient for most large scale operations, at least, as a first army, but with the thousands the earth is birthing, there will be enough for a great host, ten thousand at least, I doubt any army here about is that large. Therefore, we must concentrate on training; otherwise they will run at the first sight of blood."

Lurtz looked at him, "You think so little of them?" he asked reproachfully.

Vark looked back down at the training Uruks, the crossbowmen had finished and now swordsmen trained in groups of two, a chaotic series of lines and manoeuvres overseen by several rugged looking men, veterans from wars brought by Saruman to train his armies.

"I think that they are a Horde. The Horde in the truest sense of the word, no civilians, no merchants, no elders, all warriors, bred for one purpose. War." Said Vark, still looking at the fighting lines, at Lurtz's silence he continued, "That is the problem, without the understanding of life that other races have as they grow, they will fall quickly, there are no commanders, no tribal chiefs to follow as the lesser Orcs, even goblins know who is in charge, it will be difficult to put one in charge over another, there will be infighting, and without the proper chain of command the army will fracture."

"Ironic that you are using a human military organisation though" said a voice from the shadows.

Lurtz growled and began to draw his sword, whirling about to face to voice. A soft laugh came from the shadows, and out stepped the red robed Taelan, his hair held at his neck in the silver clasp he had taken from the corpse of a recently deceased Tharbadian wizard. Inexplicably, the corner he stepped from was the one furthest from the door. Lurtz knew the door was still barred, and defended by two of his own guard outside, in fact, the door was in his sight the whole conversation. But his questions were stopped as the dialog continued without him.

"Human organisation because they do not have the organisation of Orcs, there are no clans, therefore no chiefs. More importantly there are no shamans." Said the Warchief.

"Well… there's one." said Taelan.

"Who?" Lurtz asked suddenly, Vark had spoken of shamans before when the Warchief told him of the Orcs, but he could not imagine an Orc wielding the same power Saruman did.

"Me." Replied Vark shortly.

Lurtz stood silent at that, the Warchief had not told him that.

Taelan laughed once again, and waved his hand airily at Lurtz, "Regardless, what of the troops not of the Uruk-hai?" he asked.

"They will form the auxiliary, attached to need to the main body of the armies." Said the Warchief.

"Fair enough." Replied Taelan, he walked forward and picked up the quill, "Give every officer Captain and above a warg, preferably a black one, and a different sort of helmet or something, that will help them with their authority."

The Warchief nodded, and then walked out to the balcony; Lurtz fell into step behind him, on the right, whilst the elf took his left.

"What of different types of troops?" asked Taelan, motioning to the crossbow and swordsmen below them.

"There are Swords, Pikes, Crossbows, Berserkers and Engineers." Replied Lurtz. "Among the Uruk-hai that is, the 'axillaries' as you call them are a different matter, Saruman liked to refer to the main troops by the names of their weapons, given that we are not men, the term 'swordsmen' cannot apply."

"Continue." Commanded the Warchief, waving his hand.

"The Swords are armoured with iron plates, and equipped with shield and longsword, like so." Lurtz drew his own sword, the metal rasping on the leather scabbard, and presented it hilt first to the Warchief. The larger Orc took it, his hand too large for the grip, Vark held it out at arms-length over the parapet.

"Sufficient, why the spike at the end?" asked Vark, handing the sword back.

"According to Saruman it is to pull riders off their horses, but it gets stuck in armour, and the curves are difficult to use properly when slashing at an enemy." Replied Lurtz.

"Will it be a problem?" asked Vark,

Lurtz shook his head. "A matter of technique only, it will pass with training, and should prove useful, the Swords are the base troop, they perform the manoeuvres and flank the enemy, but the Pikes are the real mainstay of the Uruk-hai, they are armoured similarly, but with heavier armour on the left arm, forming a small shield, but they do not carry a separate shield like the Swords do. They carry pikes, as their name suggests, eighteen feet long, of various woods, with a curved head. The Pikes operate in blocks, to stop the enemy charges, they hold the enemy while the Swords flank and kill. They have proven especially useful during simulated cavalry charges. Behind them are the Crossbows, they shoot bolts faster and stronger than arrows, but of a lesser range, and slower to loose, they are usually in ranks of three, and both the Pikes and the Crossbows carry a short sword. They operate in tandem, whereas the Swords can fight alone and fulfil most roles if necessary."

"Crossbows similarly armoured?" asked Vark.

"Similarly, but not the same, Crossbows have lighter armour, with the breastplate and helmet only made from metal, the bracers and shin guards of leather." Replied Lurtz

"These Berserkers and Engineers?" asked Taelan after a moments silence.

"The Wizard made many experiments into the Uruk-hai when he was creating them, the Berserkers, from what I read of his notes when I glanced at them once, were one of them. They are Uruk-hai, but they are unstable, they take the simplest of commands, but are larger than normal Uruk-hai." Said Lurtz, "Engineers manage the siege weapons and sapping, as well as the Fire of Orthanc."

"Taelan, find out for certain what this 'Fire of Orthanc' is," he paused, holding his chin in one hand, "I am suspicious." Said Vark.

"Of what Warchief?" asked Lurtz.

"Speak more of these berserkers." Taelan told him, he looked at Vark, who waved his hand again.

"They go into battle unarmoured, but heal faster than usual, shallower cuts being healed within days rather than weeks, and larger injuries taking weeks instead of months. They wear only a loincloth and a helmet, their swords are longer than ours, but have two spikes on the end. They are the line breakers, and charge into the fray heedless of danger, using their fangs to bite the throats of their enemies. Before battle they fill their helms with blood and then put them on, the blood drips down as they fight." Lurtz said dispassionately.

"Now I am very suspicious." Repeated Vark, he turned to Taelan, "What do you think?" he asked.

"I think that Saruman the White may have been trafficking with demons." Replied Taelan slowly.

From what Lurtz had heard, demons were not good news at all.

"Lurtz, later on, take Taelan to where ever these Berserkers are billeted, Taelan, I want a full examination of them. I will not have the Blood Curse infecting my Horde." Said Vark forcefully.

Lurtz thumped his chest, "Yes Warchief!", and Taelan nodded his head.

OOoOoOO

Taelan took another look at the metal plate before him, the black steel glinting in the candlelight. Without taking his eyes off it he reached out with one hand to an earthenware bowl next to the metal, he dipped his fingers in the cool liquid in it, and drew his hand back toward the plate, and daubed a circular shield shaped rune on it. The blood dripped down the edges of the metal, but the base rune stayed, in defiance of gravity.

"Blood has been shed so that blood may not be shed." Taelan intoned, and the rune shone red, then evaporated into the air.

On the subject of blood, it had turned out there was no Blood Curse about Isengard, Taelan had made a magical and basic chemical examination of some of the Uruk-hai Berserkers, formidable specimens all of them, but there was not a trace of demonic activity. 'Still suspicious' Vark had maintained.

The young warlock sat back, the cool air of the cave around him sat still, the occasional gust of wind whistled in his hair. The full moon shone above, silver light filtering down. Taelan looked around him, on all sides he was surrounded by rudely worked plates of steel, not polished or painted, but fresh out of the forge and from under the hammer. He moved the breastplate from in front of him, and took up the two bracers and shin guards from the pile beside him, and laid them out before him. He took up the bowl again, and painted three parallel lines on each of the pieces.

"Blood flows as water so that limbs flow as water." He intoned again, and one by one the runes disappeared.

Taelan panted, the last rune would be more demanding. He took the last piece of armour and set it in front of him, then he checked the bowl. As he thought, the bowl was empty, the price of this particular brand of magic. He threw the bowl over his shoulder, hearing it smash on the stone floor.

"Now for the last." The elf murmured, he took his dagger and held it over his hand. One fast slash and pain swept up his arm, the sting of metal slicing open his palm.

"Blood of mine upon this earth, that this earth will protect He of mine Blood. Blood of mine body, that the Blood of the earth, Iron, may protect He of mine blood. Blood of mine body, upon this earth." Taelan chanted, growing steadily louder, he reached forward and smeared his hand on the final piece of armour. The Elf looked up, a cloud passed over the moon, the world was dark for a second, and when light returned, all traces of the blood was gone. Taelan looked once again on the last piece of armour.

"Behold the Horned King and his Iron Crown" he said, looking up at the moon, then keeled over backwards and passed out.

OOOoOoOoOOO

Nine walked about Edoras at ease, he had recently returned from a scouting mission taking several days with Éomer and some men of his house. Among them was an unpleasant and untrusting fellow be the name of Éothain who made constant remarks mostly to the effect of "My Lord Éomer, is it wise to keep this Dúnadan about?"

However, such remarks had stopped after Nine sliced his stirrup strap on a break, leading to him falling from his horse, rolling down a slope and being knocked out. Even better, upon inspection of his gear Éothain was royally told off for not keeping his equipment in proper order, and instructed to service the rest of the éored's riding gear for a week.

A good day's work in Nine opinion.

The cheerful spy made his way up the city, visiting a tanner briefly to purchase some pieces of leather he was planning on reinforcing his armour with. Éomer had provided him with a modest stipend for the purposes of such things after extracting an oath not to abuse the privilege. Luckily the local merchants operated on more of a barter system than monetary reimbursement, meaning that only nobles used coins, each one made of gold or silver with a horse's head on it. As such Nine made sure he brought back a brace of rabbits, or other such fresh meat each time he went out, and traded them to the people of Edoras.

As Nine wandered through the low gate to the higher tiers of the city he nodded to the guards. His opinion of the guards of the city was not a good one. They relied on their enemies to do the same things they would do themselves. This meant therefore that they never considered an enemy scaling the large rocky hill that Meduseld was built on. Nine also noticed that they had no aerial capability, but assumed that, as he had not seen anyone with aerial capability yet, that would not be an issue. Alternatively that it was rare enough not to worry about.

Nine pushed open the side doors of Meduseld, slipping inside with his bag. Unconsciously keeping to the shadows he progressed through the hall, and eventually reached the Royal Library. According to Éomer, (who Nine had briefly questioned) the Rohirrim did not write books, and instead went in more for singing songs following the tradition of oral history. Regardless, the spy had found the library on the third day of his arrival, whilst looking for Éowyn at the request of her brother, who desired to speak with her.

The small library was only two rooms, and was overseen by a very old man from Gondor, Araval by name, who had come to Rohan with the current King, who had also been born in Gondor, or something similar. The librarian was old and his story confused, so Nine had understood little of what he said. Nine had in fact found the Lady reading in a shaft of sunlight, he returned many times, ostensibly to learn more of the Rohimmirm's culture, but in reality to spend more time around the more important players of Rohan's political scene.

Of course, the fact that Éowyn was very attractive was beside the point.

"Good hmm Day, Lord Nine." Came a rasping voice from the shelves.

Nine turned to see a pair of shining eyes peering out between the piles of scrolls. "Master Araval." Replied Nine, making a short bow.

The librarian shuffled out from behind his documents, his musty robes shedding dust slowly as he walked. He balanced on a stick propped under his shoulder, relic of a leg wound never properly healed. Nine went to pull out a chair for him, and the librarian sat.

"Was your ride, mm, profitable?" asked Araval, clearing his throat periodically.

"Éothain fell from his horse in pursuit of a deer." Remarked Nine, taking a seat opposite Araval.

The librarian chuckled, "A bad business, a Horse Lord falling from his steed."

"Indeed," replied Nine ironically, "But profitable for you as well." He said, handing over the small sack of herbs he had collected at the request of the librarian.

"Ah, mm, yes, thank you, most kind." Replied Araval, drawing the sack towards him and feeling inside for the plants. He brought one out, a purple flower with roots intact, and smelt it. "The Wolfsbane," he lightly touched the roots, his eyes looking at it keenly, "intact as I requested, you surprise me Lord Nine, I did not expect you to be a herb master."

Nine smiled, "Nothing so grand, you alone hold that title I think, merely that, as a ranger I am often in the wild, and oftimes it is good to know what around you is safe to eat, and what one might coat ones arrows with to slay one's enemies."

Araval's hands shook, he dropped the plant and looked at the door, nodding his head toward it. Nine understood, and went to shut it, then sat again.

"You know of the poisons?" asked Araval carefully.

"The Ranger's way is the way of shadows, of the single blade in the dark, not of the warrior in the sun, his mail bright." Replied Nine, repeating a statement to him made by Mathias Shaw in his training.

"Yes, yes," said Araval, now looking at Nine more carefully, his herbs abandoned. "But how much do you know of them, eh?"

"I know that that one's roots, mashed and their juices extracted over a fire will kill a man within minutes if consumed, or introduced to the blood stream." Said Nine, indicating the purple flower.

"Yes, this is so, but now to it, do you swear that you have done no hurt to the people of Rohan? Or to their King?" the Librarian asked, one of his hands disappearing into the folds of his robe. Nine noticed the move, but was confident that he could move fast enough to avoid whatever Araval might do.

"I do so swear." Replied Nine, it was true, in fact, he had warned them of Saruman's treachery seemingly months in advance of Saruman's planned move against them.

Araval was silent for a few moments, Then removed his hand from his sleeve, "It is as the Lady Éowyn has, informed me, you are a man of honour."

_Of a sort, _thought Nine privately.

"What think you of the King's health?" asked Araval softly, wary of eavesdroppers.

"I think more of sorcery than of poison." Replied Nine equally softly. "But it is not unheard of, for some toxins to fog the mind."

"Yes, this is my belief also, and the villain being who?"

Nine heard footsteps outside, "It is not only snakes that have venom, but Worms also." He said as the door opened.

Araval nodded sagely, and they both sat back, Araval picking up a herb at random and pretending to be very interested in it. Nine looked about and saw the golden hair of Éowyn as she pushed the door open with her back, backing into the room holding a tray of food, presumably for Araval, as he rarely left his sanctum.

"Good Day, mm, Lady, Mmhm, Éowyn." Called Araval softly. "I fear I may have to share your, mmm, gift with our guest here though." He said, his eyes twinkling.

Nine suddenly noticed that Araval only cleared his throat at certain times, it was very off putting to a conversation, and Nine realised that it was probably a deliberate tactic, to put people off their thoughts around him, as he had not used the sounds when he had spoken to Nine a moment ago. He realised also that he had seriously underestimated the old man, instead of the scatter-brained librarian he now seemed to be a sly spy-master and potioneer, understanding many things, but speaking rarely of them. The old man was also surprisingly forward with Nine, possibly finding a kindred spirit. However, Nine was inclined to be wary on such matters.

Éowyn turned and noticed Nine. "Good Day My Lord Nine" she said, smiling, "I apologise, I did not know you were here, Éomer has only recently returned, and I believed you still about the city."

Nine stood, bowed, greeted her, and offered her his own chair, which she took with a smile. He then went off to find another for himself. As he returned he thought frantically for an excuse not to eat Éowyn's food, he had tried it once and almost gagged, it was commonly thought of among the other Rohirrim to be overly flavoured and undercooked, and they avoided it at all costs, Éomer regularly making many apologies for his sister's cooking.

"Nay Lady," he replied, sitting, "I had eaten not an hour ago after arriving at the city gates. Araval looked at him sidelong, one wrinkled corner of his mouth upturned in amusement. How the old man could stomach the food Nine did not know, and assumed his taste buds had long ago wasted away.

Araval finished a mouthful and wiped his hands on a cloth, "I was just instructing the Lord Nine on the many herbs and, mmm, flowers of this fair land." He said.

"Just so," said Nine picking up on the hint, "I had collected some for the librarian here, to use for his joints, for they hurt him at night."

Araval nodded at him magnanimously, "And the roots of this flower," he said, picking up the Wolfsbane, "Will ease palpitations of the heart."

_Ease them permanently that is, _thought Nine, but said nothing, only raising his eyebrows at the old man.

Araval motioned two fingers at him, asking for silence, Nine did so, and the three continued in amicable conversation for several minutes, till a hammering at the door interrupted them. Nine restrained himself from going for his knife, but noticed Araval's hand neared each other, one resting on top of the other, whilst he pushed his chair back.

"Mm, Enter." Said the Librarian.

A dark haired boy came scurrying in and bowed, then noticing the others in the room bowed again. "Gríma the Wormtongue demands the Lord Nine's presence." He said, "I was told that he was here."

"The Lord Nine could not be found here." Nine told him, picking a silver penny out of his pocket, "He is still about the town, you may tell the Wormtongue that." He flipped the coin to the boy, who caught it deftly and bit it. Then he bowed and scurried out again.

"What was the purpose of that my Lord?" asked Éowyn after the messenger had departed.

"None other than an aversion to Wormtongue himself, he is an ill favoured man." Replied Nine lightly, Araval laughed, Éowyn said nothing, Nine noticed a momentary melancholy pass across her face.

Éowyn stood up, "I must bid you farewell my Lords, I have business elsewhere and the day wears away."

It was true, the light from the window falling on the table was less bright now, and Nine could no longer make out some of the corners of the room, it was coming on to dusk.

Éowyn nodded to them, then walked away, drawing the door closed behind her.

Araval looked back to his plants, replacing them in the bag. "Would you do me a service Lord Nine?" he asked, looking up at the spy.

"It would depend on the service." Replied Nine wryly.

Araval smiled, "Rare is the man who responds as such when asked."

Nine did not know quite whether that was a compliment or an insult.

"It is nothing arduous I assure you." Araval said, his voice now easily audible, and without the normal rasping quality. "Follow her, she has been withdrawn in recent days, perhaps fearing for her uncle or brother, and I fear for her."

"Of course." Replied Nine, standing, "Shall we speak later?" he asked.

"I think it would be well if we did." Replied Araval. "Thank you for the herbs."

Nine bowed shortly to his new friend and conspirator, and walked out.

OOoooOO

"_You killed my sons!" screamed the elf, sweeping his sword forward. A ring shone on his hand, and a circlet of silver glinted about his brow as it held back the raven hair. "You slew them as your kind slew their mother! Too long have my people waited, we shall never leave now! Not until all of your kind has been exterminated, Estel is gone, yet I defy you!" The elf's timeless face had rage written upon it, and great sorrow, and he ran forward again, his sword streaming with black blood as his eyes streamed with tears. All around him his home burned. _

_A deep laugh echoed about the courtyard, and through the slits of his crested helm Vark saw the flames leap from the pyre of the elvenkind. "Your defiance is at an end, Elf Lord, you are the last, scattered bands are all that is left of the elves, skulking in their forests. The rest have fled into the west, running back to their Gods, but those I serve are higher still." He said, readying his hammer. _

"_Elbereth!" cried the elf, sweeping his sword down, Vark raised an arm, and the blade skittered off his vambrace, leaving a scratch, but doing no damage. Vark smiled._

"_Blood and Thunder!" he shouted back, bringing his hammer round in an arc, the elf raised a hand, and light spilled from the blue jewel in his ring, creating a shield that intercepted Vark strike. Vark hammered at it again, and it cracked, the elf staggering backwards with each hit. Finally it shattered, a sound like a thunderclap echoing through the courtyard. The elf was thrown back, and Vark staggered. After the dust cleared, Vark looked about him, a crater had been left in the ground, and in it, were littered fragments of silver and glinting blue crystal._

"_Your trinkets cannot save you now Elf! That was the last ring!" yelled Vark to the devastation, striding forward, one iron shod boot crushing the remaining fragments of crystal. He caught a flash of golden armour, and a whip of cape rushing round a pile of rubble. He ran after it, his footsteps sounding loud in the ruins. Behind him he could still hear the sounds of battle, shouted oaths and battle cries, along with the incessant drumming of war. _

_He found the elf climbing a staircase, open to the world, his cloak streaming in the wind, the elf mounted the stair, pausing only to hurl a dagger at Vark before running up the stairs to an open sided building on the mount of the valley. Vark pursued him, smashing his hammer into the wall, narrowly missing the elf's head. His opponent swept his sword backhanded at his waist, hoping to bisect him, but Vark blocked with the haft of his hammer. The elf scrambled away again, gaining the top of the stair, and turned to face him. _

_Vark advanced, swinging his weapon slowly from side to side. _

"_Nowhere to run elf." He said. "The green fields of Rohan are red with flame, Erebor under siege, even Mordor, where you may have looked to escape from me, is destroyed. There is nowhere to run now."_

_The elf made to attack again, but Vark caught his sword stroke and tore it from his grasp, then threw it over the edge, the blade tumbling down the cliff. Vark advanced further, both their feet were in the stream now, it flowed over the edge in a glimmering waterfall, but the river below was tainted with blood. _

_At the last, the elf raised his fists, bared his teeth, and ran forward for a last desperate assault. Vark pulled back his hammer, then threw it forward._

"_Doomhammer!" Vark roared, his voice booming across the valley, thunder rumbled and bellowed, and the air crackled around the two, and infinitely slowly it seemed, the mace flew across the divide, imbued with lightning the weapon crashed into the elf's chest, a thunderclap in and of itself. The elf was thrown backwards, his limbs crumpling around the projectile, the force of the throw carrying body and weapon across into the darkness._

_Vark walked up on the edge of the waterfall, and looked below him. The city burned in the night, lighting the land with its conflagration, he could see the black field and red emblem of the Horde displayed proudly from stone towers. Many looked up as he stood there, and began to speak, their clamour almost eclipsing the sound of the fires burning. _

_He held up a hand, his army interpreted it as a call for silence, but that was not it. A whistling sound came from the other end of the valley, steadily growing in magnitude as the object of his desire neared. A blur flew out of the dark, over the heads of the army, and into his hand, and Vark the Warchief brandished aloft Doomhammer. Thunder rolled in applause and triple-forked lightening crashed across the mountains in tribute._

Vark awoke, panting, covered in a sheen of sweat.

He rolled out of his bed, gasping on all fours on the stone floor. He brought his head up, but the vision was gone, in its place an inoffensive bedside table. He struggled to his feet, and threw his cloak over his shoulders and staggered out the door, making his way quickly down the corridor toward the central staircase. He climbed up it, hundreds of steps to the top and throwing open the door he came out to the Pinnacle of Orthanc. Twenty feet squared of carved stone, four daggers reaching out from each of the corners. The Orc went to the middle and sat, still breathing heavily. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes, facing toward the peaks of the Misty Mountains. Vark felt the wind gusting around him, the smell of snow was in the air, and the cry of the eagle on the breeze. His breathing calmed, and he opened himself to the elements.

OOOoOoOoOOO

Taelan awoke on the floor. He groaned, and rolled over, pushing himself into a seating position. It was then when his nerves caught up with his brain and he hissed in pain, cradling his hand to his chest. He looked around him, the pit was one of the smaller ones he had seen, and he remembered stealing into it after dusk the previous day.

From the red bloom coming from the east, and the length of the shadows Taelan thought that it was probably only shortly after dawn. Meaning the elf had slept for about five hours. He was therefore exhausted; now, normally five hours would be fine, especially given his unique and predominantly magical physiology. But combined with effects of the ritual he was feeling the effects.

However, this was easily fixed, with the liberal applications of mana gems and a rather awkward-to-cast reverse life tap on himself. As such, he pulled out a blue gem from his pocket, looking like a sapphire, but that was where the appearances ended. He pressed it to his lips and inhaled, the gem turning into motes of pure mana, and inhaling them. He then drew a purple sigil in the air, and then walked through it. Coming out of the other side, he shook himself violently, wringing his hands and hopping from one foot to the other, waiting for the tingling to fade.

As he stood there his long ears picked up the distant noises of toil and work going on in the further pits across the plain of Isengard. He looked back, then walked back to the ritual circle from the night before and took the armour from where it lay. Picking the six pieces up, he wrapped them in a cloth and put them under his arm. As he walked away he made sure to scuff the circle thoroughly before leaving. Striding toward the door he dispelled the lock he had put on the night before, absorbing the remaining power in the spell. The outside was empty, and Taelan took the longer route away from the more populated areas of the Pit, over the walkways high above the forges. Reaching the largest forge he replaced the armour he had been carrying on its mannequin and slipped away. He then stood in the shadows of a corner for the quartermaster to arrive. The man did so shortly, apparently realising that his newest work had been tampered with, and checked it over. Not finding anything overt, the man went over to his forge, and to a wooden board standing up with the plans of the armour on it.

It was a good thing the armourer had not looked on the insides of the pieces, otherwise he would have noticed the extensive runes, both preparatory and active ones covering the insides of the metal, dark red lines seared into the surface.

Taelan stepped out of the shadows, and slinked forward, his feet leaving no marks of his passage. He got behind the man and peered over his shoulder, hearing the heavy sound of his breathing.

"You will finish the main pieces by noon." He said in the man's ear.

The man spun round, an ink pot brandished as a weapon. Seeing who it was he regained himself and swallowed. "Why by then?" he asked.

"That you do not need to know." Taelan replied. "The helm, breastplate and pauldrons, braces and greaves will be finish by noon. Then then Warchief will come for them. Understand? You will bring red paint as well."

The man nodded.

Taelan walked away.

OOoOoOoOO

Bronn was shaken. He watched the elf walk away, his hand on the knife at his belt. Ironmongery was not his profession, he was a provisioner, an overseer, he wished the Warchief would go through the proper channels to have his armour made. It had already thrown off a whole wagon full of swords for the Orcs. But he was being paid well, so he would have to deal with it.

The elf was a different matter entirely, there was madness in his eyes, a crazed look that saw a least one man burned alive already. The Warchief wasn't so bad, quite reasonable actually, for an Orc. The elf on the other hand.

He put down his work and strode off, passing the casting bays, molten iron being poured in, filling the molds of swords. Then there was the sharpening of the blades, and then the finishing touches, the handles of two halves of wood wrapped in leather.

Bronn grabbed the shoulder of a dwarf speaking with another dwarf, both had beady eyes, ruddy skin, and coarse black hair on head and chin.

"Oi, Frear!" he shouted over the sound of the bellows, "Get some of your bearded midgets over to Pit One! The Warchief's armour needs finishing and your lot are the fastest, otherwise I'm telling the Orc you were slacking, and the Mad Elf will burn you to death!" Frear tried to protest but Bronn was already gone to find more people to bully into helping him. One of the bracers wasn't even cast yet! And he still had to check the padding, he was sure the elf had been messing about with something.

OOooooOO

Sometime later, Taelan, having spoken with several quite frightened servants, was climbing the steps of Orthanc. He had felt the tension building in the air for several hours, and a storm was gathering outside. Worryingly it was centred on the tower; with a powerful shaman in the vicinity the conclusion was self-evident.

With Vark, this occurrence was rare. From what his friend had told him, in shamanic communities there was often a storm above the settlement, as shaman's connections with the elements could be affected by their emotional state. If they were happy, flowers would bloom, and sometimes spontaneously erupt from the floor. If they were sad, rain would fall, if they were frustrated or angry the air would grow heavy and the heat would be oppressive. Only the strongest of emotions or the strongest of shamans had the power to call up a lightning storm on their own. Therefore, from the signs of the weather, Taelan could tell his friend's mood.

First there was a pressure in the air, but it was yet cool. This was confusion. Then there was the dark clouds and overcast sky, this was frustration or anger, but not rage, more a sense of helplessness. That was particularly rare for Vark to experience; he was usually the master of his emotions, and always had a plan. Sometimes said plan was to act spontaneously and go with his feelings, but that was still a plan.

Taelan's surroundings were filled with light suddenly from one of the windows, and thunder rolled outside. Lightening could mean many things, most of them not good. Taelan hurried up the stairs. After a few minutes his legs had begun to burn, but he had reached the top, the door was thrown open, and swung on its hinges.

Taelan walked out into the storm; luckily it hadn't started raining yet. He never enjoyed the rain. Taelan came across the roof and to the seated figure. Predictably, it was Vark, less now of the Warchief, more of the Shaman, the spiritual leader of his people, rather than the martial one.

The most unusual aspect of the picture before him was the large raptor sitting on Vark's shoulder. As Taelan came closer the bird turned round, and was revealed to be an eagle. The bird twisted round in its perch, taking its head out from under its wing, and screeched at him, extending its wings threateningly.

"Be at peace." He told it, "I am here as a watcher for him also."

The eagle nodded at him, then went back to preening itself.

Taelan looked at it again, then went over to the edge and looked down. Sufficed to say, it was a long drop. He walked back around his friend, making sure not to break his line of sight with to the mountains and went to sit against one of the tall spiky pillars on the corners, this one let him sit within sight of Vark when he awoke from his trance, but in reach of the door if anyone tried to get in. A shaman using his Far Sight was sometimes a dangerous one, not knowing friend from foe in their altered state of mind, and was usually not in control of their powers.

Well, not so much, they were so much in control that every whim was fulfilled by the elements, meaning that if they willed a person to be gone, as an annoyance perhaps, the person would catch on fire and be incinerated, or in one cautionary tale told of Draenor, be hit by an improbably and unfortunately accurate meteor.

Happily Taelan did not have long to wait, and busied himself in making an account of all his regents for his various spells. When he had done this he started creating more mana gems, keeping five of them, he imbued the last two with higher levels of energy to make them last longer, and left the other three out in front of Vark, knowing his friend would be magically drained after drawing energy from within himself for such a long spell.

Taelan heard footfalls coming up the steps. He got up and went to the door and inside, and saw Lurtz being led up by a visibly shaking human servant.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

Lurtz dismissed the servant, who edged round the large Uruk-hai and back down the stairs. "I have prepared a list of candidates for the positions of leadership the Warchief was discussing with us yesterday." He recounted.

"Come up." Taelan said and beckoned him forward.

They went up and stood on one of the corners, a slight breeze blowing, but not enough to make reading difficult. Taelan looked over the list, twenty three names, mainly Uruk-hai, or what sounded like it, with a plethora of names from Grazgha to Mauhúr to Uglúk, but two human names, Umbaron 'the Black' and Cahill 'Darkwood', or so the scrawl said.

"Who are these two?" asked Taelan, indicating the two seemingly human names.

Lurtz squinted down, "Cahill's a Dunlending, an exiled chief some say, Umbaron is one of these black men, out of the south, he wears a cloth about his head."

"And they are trustworthy?" asked Taelan, not being surprised, after all, all people have the same colour skin once you char it enough with a good fireball.

"They are true enough." Responded Lurtz. "If the rumours are right, Cahill has nowhere else to go, and Umbaron came here years ago as a slave in service of a trader or traveller, the story is unclear, but escaped when the trader stopped here, so with either this is their only home."

"Very well." Said Taelan, "The rest?"

Lurtz swept one hand over the paper, "Mauhúr and Uglúk are of my own cohort, we trained together and they are good for leading raids and suchlike. The rest are of the newer breeds, all showing promise at command, big and strong, natural leaders."

Taelan nodded slowly, "Who do you raid? The Dunlendings are our allies, and Rohan has not been attacked yet."

"Not all the Dunlanders are on our side, as I heard Saruman say once, for he was fond of talking to himself, it was an 'alliance of convenience', they want Rohan gone, we want more land, attacking Rohan is good for both parties." Lurtz explained, "Also, Saruman planned on inviting the Dunland Chiefs here and controlling them with spells, to appoint a puppet on the throne of Rohan and Dunland both. That or he planned on just slaughtering them at a feast, he could never decide which. But anyway, Saruman let us raid the tribes living in Dunland that the Dunland King couldn't control, so we have so experience in fighting men, other than mock battles."

Taelan digested this. "Fair enough." He said, he had no particular issue with treachery as long as it didn't adversely affect him or Vark.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, Lurtz studying their mutual superior. "What is the Warchief doing?" he asked quietly.

"It is part of being a shaman, he is the one creating this storm I should think." Said Taelan back to him, a little awe never hurt.

Lurtz glanced up at the black clouds, then back to the larger Orc, looking suitably impressed.

"He is in a trance, sometimes the more powerful Orcs get visions of the future, or of the past, or indeed, of the present." Continued Taelan. "He should wake soon, but it is better not to disturb him. As shown by our friend there." He said, indicating the eagle.

Lurtz nodded quickly, and edged back slightly behind Taelan. Taelan laughed at that.

They stood there a while longer, Lurtz having put away his paper. However, the eagle started to look around it, then hopped off of Vark's shoulder and flew away west, the wind carrying it far away from the black tower. Taelan looked back to Vark, knowing he would stir soon.

"You are injured." Came the deep voice.

"It is nothing," replied Taelan "Take the gems." He said, indicating the three stones.

Vark held out his hand and they floated into his palm, orbiting around each other and around his hand. They dissolved into a fine sparkling blue dust, and settled on his skin. Vark formed his fingers into a fist, and stood. He turned towards them. "I have Seen." He said.

"What was it?" asked Taelan.

"I was fighting a dark haired elf in a burning city." Vark replied. "I was victorious. Also there was a contest between a white tree, a horse, and a black snake with red eyes."

Taelan shrugged, as long as Vark hadn't Seen anything bad he didn't really care what the vision was, it might even just be a dream, one that felt like a vision. "Your armour is ready by the way." He said, changing the subject.

"Good, I have been waiting." Replied the Warchief. "Fetch the wargs and meet us at the bottom." He told Taelan, "Lurtz, tell me of this list you were speaking about."

Taelan bowed sardonically and turned round. Lurtz watched him confusedly, his expression turned alarmed as Taelan casually walked off of the tower.

Taelan held out his arms wide and rocked off the edge, his stomach flipping as he toppled forward. As the air whipped his hood off and his hair streamed in the wind, Taelan reminisced on how amazing flying really was. He had never truly flown, but Vark had made it a habit every week to throw him off a cliff near the camp, it was all in good fun, and Taelan had eventually developed the ability to dispense with the regents needed to slow his fall. The spell took more mana, but was very useful when used in conjunction with 'lineal instantaneous short range teleportation' as the book had said, commonly known in the mage community as 'Blink'. Taelan was somewhat of an outcast of the community, given his status as a warlock, literally an 'oathbreaker', the fact that he had made no such oath apparently did not bother anyone. However, he was also outcast from the warlock community, for stealing from his master, as well as still practicing some mage spells.

However, this was not a problem, because Taelan simply did not care. He had Vark, and Vark appreciated him, and his skills, and that was enough.

Come to think of it the ground was coming up awfully fast.

Taelan threw his arms our, fingers splayed, imagining himself soaring on the wind, just as the eagle had minutes before. He felt the wind decrease rapidly, or rather, the speed at which he was falling. He brought his feet round, his head up, and shot a wave of fire out of his hands to slow his fall further; given the backfire of throwing spells about he was pushed upwards at a similar velocity as the fire was pushed downwards.

Vark had called this a 'Fire Drop'. The trees around Ashenvale tended to be very high, and Vark would lurk on the edge of the battlefield, seemingly alone and an easy target, then, when ganged up on by several enemies, Taelan would drop out of a tree, throwing fire as he went, and then throw a fireblast downwards, impacting on the floor. At best, this fried several enemies, at worst, it distracted them long enough for Vark to kill them himself, and blinded them long enough so that they wouldn't immediately turn round and stab him in the face.

They had perfected the technique during their second year at Mor'shan, and used it to great effect in battle, earning Taelan the epitaph 'the Lightening' about the camp, Vark was 'the Thunder'. Lightening came down first out of the sky, killing a few, and Thunder followed, killing the rest.

Regents made spells easier, but were not essential. One memorable incident occurred on his and Vark's leave in Orgrimmar, a haughty blood elf mage spat at him in the street, probably because Taelan was a warlock, so Taelan had challenged him to a simple magical duel. As the offended party he got to choose weapons and venue, which was decided to be the new zeppelin tower in the centre of Orgrimmar, and the Slow Fall spell. Taelan had invited the mage to go first. Little did the mage know, Taelan had replaced the mage's regents, specifically his feathers, with those of a flightless bird. Therefore, when the mage had stepped from the tower, a sudden look of terror had crossed his face, and his spell had assumed the qualities of the regent he was using. Namely, the quality of going _splat_ when dropped from a large height. Taelan had thought it was hilarious, and learned much to his profit from the mage's books after he had ransacked his house.

'The Lightening' dusted himself off, rearranged his robes, and went to fetch the wargs. However, before he had gotten to the new kennels, actually dens dug out of the foothills of the mountains to the north, he was almost run down by three wargs. One was his own female, Silverflood, the others two large blacks, Blackbite, and one unfamiliar to Taelan. He sent a questioning thought to his mount, who sent back a set of images and feeling associated with subservient leadership. Taelan surmised it as the position of 'Beta' and assumed this was the mount of Lurtz.

Taking Silverflood's rough mane he pulled himself up, his robes making riding awkward, he would have to sort that out soon. The wargs seemed to know where they were going, and he let them walk at their own pace. Arriving at the steps of Orthanc with a about a minute to spare, he climbed off and made a cut in the middle of his robes, leaving two separate pieces of fabric covering his legs. This would be the prototype of his new robes he decided, and he would visit a seamstress soon to finalise the design.

Interrupting his musings on fashion, the doors of Orthanc were opened, and the two Orcs came out, Vark walking slowly along, his great animal pelt swinging with each step, Lurtz walking slightly faster to keep up with his Warchief's longer strides. Vark nodded to him and walked off the third step instead of going all the way to the bottom, using the high of the step to climb onto his mount faster. Lurtz followed his example, and Taelan waited for Vark to start before guiding Silverflood to walk at the left paw of Blackbite.

They rode at a reasonable pace down into Pit One, this time taking a wide wooden ramp down the side of the pit wall and through a tunnel roughly hewn out of the rock, the tunnel forked, the right passage heading down to the training ground, whilst the ramp they had just left lead away back up the wall where people quarried the rock, expanding the pits to form new, many tiered areas.

"Who does all this?" mused Taelan aloud.

"Goblins mainly," replied Lurtz, "Some humans carry the rock out, and dwarves oversee it all."

"Dwarves?" asked a surprised Taelan, turning in his seat, the tunnel was too narrow to ride abreast.

"Mostly outcasts and exiles from Erebor in the North, or out of the White Mountains before the Dragon's fall. Many lured by the promise of gold, they came here, there was much work to be done, and Dwarven-Goblin alliances are not unheard of, both live underground and work best in hard rock, goblins can even tunnel as straight and good as dwarves if they set their minds to it." Replied Lurtz helpfully.

They came to a wide archway, and dismounted, leaving their wargs to wander about on their own business, presumably to feed and water themselves, safe in the knowledge that they would be there when they got back. After all, who would want to, or indeed, could steal a warg?

They followed Vark to the quartermaster; Bronn, the man was speaking with a bent-backed goblin, and watching several goblins making arrows sitting at benches. The man looked up when they walked in, and raised a hand in greeting.

"Hail Warchief." He called across the space, dismissing the goblin next to him away with a whispered word.

Vark raised a hand, and walked over. Bronn raised a hand, and another goblin delivered a quiver of arrows to him. "Lurtz," he said, "I have the arrows you requested made, interesting design, I have not seen it's like before, tell be how they perform, I have some more ideas about this if they work." He passed over the quiver, Lurtz took it and unbuckled his own, unthreading it from his hip and threading the leather straps of the belt into the tabs on the back of the new quiver. The Uruk took one of the arrows, and held it up; the tip was broad, sharp, and cruelly barbed, the back edges being serrated. Lurtz smiled sinisterly and replaced it, nodding at the man.

Bronn turned to Vark. "Your armour is ready Warchief, the work went faster than expected and we have virtually all of it done. The elf told me it had to be done by noon, so I put more of the workers on it." He said, indicating Taelan.

Vark turned his head to raise an eyebrow at Taelan. Taelan grinned at him disarmingly. Vark shrugged and walked toward a tall shape covered in an old cloth. Bronn joined him and dramatically pulled away the covering. Revealed stood an imposing suit of black plate, trimmed in places with gold. From the bottom, rectangular shin guards, extending over the knee, then greaves of a similar fashion, covering the front and sides of the thighs. Underneath was chainmail at the back and inner thigh. On the arms, a huge pair of vambraces, smooth with a raised edge, again in gold, and three four sided spikes running down the length. In the middle was a breastplate, one solid plate protecting the pectorals and thorax with several smaller plates like a crab's armour protecting the abdomen. These, Taelan guessed would ensure proper protection by making any strikes slide off the plates, but also allowing movement by separating the plates, covering the shoulders were equally massive pardons, similarly worked to the bracers they were trimmed with gold and covered in spikes. Finally, a high helm, narrow eyeslits, and stimulated cheekbones, the mouth part came forward, ending in a slightly elongated snout like a boar's. Finally, the most imposing aspect, the five horns extending out of the top of the helmet, Taelan remember the helm in the moonlight, hours ago, the thing made for war also representing majesty, command.

Power.

Taelan looked to the new owner of the armour. Vark's mouth was open in a smile, his tusks bared, his face alight with the red fire of the forges around him.

"Armour me." The Warchief ordered, and pulled off his pelt and gave it to a waiting goblin. Bronn motioned to several other goblins loitering nearby, they ran forward and took the pieces, each vambrace taking two to carry, the breastplate and attached backplate taking four goblins each. Taelan himself seized the helm in one hand, shocked looks were directed at him at this show of strength, and Taelan dragged a table toward his Warchief and stood on it, eye to eye with the Orc. Vark removed the remains of his leather trousers and stood bare but for a loincloth, Bronn passed him a new pair of leather trews, and stout boots reinforced with strips of iron to prevent attacks to the ankles. Vark dressed himself in both, but needed no upper covering or padding on his arms of legs as the armour was already padded with a black cloth trimmed with fur. Goblins tightened the leather straps on the limb armour, whilst others lifted the breastplate with some difficulty over Vark's head, buckling the separate breast and back plates together with other straps. Vark then flexed and moved, nodded once to Bronn, and approached Taelan on his table. Taelan brought the helm up, then lifted it onto Vark's head.

"Here is crowned Vark, Warchief of the Horde." He intoned, and then thinking upon it some more, decided not to repeat his words of the night before, thinking that it was far to ominous. Bronn, seeing Taelan looking at him, brought forward a bowl filled with red paint, and Taelan took it in his left hand, and dipped two fingers into it. He raised them, flicked them at the ground for the spirits, and drew the symbol of the Horde on Vark's chest, a line coming up from the left, then bending round in a wide circle and finishing on the right, a similar line going down from it, longer than the left side's. The elf drew on the finishing touches, four raised points on the line like thorns from a branch, and one red spot in the middle.

Taelan looked into Vark's eyes, he could tell he was smiling.

OOOOoooooooOOOO

When they came up the ramp out of the pit, Vark's new armour clinked together, he had thrown his old bear pelt over it, as he had unarmoured, and the bushy fur stood out about his shoulders, he had also doffed his helm and hung it on his belt by a helpful buckle. Vark did not seem to have any particular destination in mind, but began to speak as he rode, presumably for Taelan's benefit to understand what he had discussed with Lurtz on their way down, Taelan assumed he had waited as he didn't want his plans overheard by anyone.

He and the Uruk drew their mounts closer Vark spoke. "I have decided to let each possible commander choose twenty five men or Uruk-hai, and send them into Rohan under the White Hand of Saruman, they will raid the villages and smaller towns, making it appear that Saruman has attacked Rohan. Then, after the Rohirrim respond, we will form all the unworthy and untrusty elements in Isengard into one army and order them to invade Rohan as well. Lurtz suspects this will be some of the Uruk-hai more loyal to the late Wizard, as well as some of the Men he brought with coin. After they have invaded, and Rohan's army is gathered, assassins I will seed in the army will kill its commanders, meaning the army is in disarray, they will be defeated by the forces of Rohan and will flee, once they reach the Isen they will come upon the new forts we will construct at the Fords, and they will be slaughtered. This will rid us of the traitors here, appease the Dunlendings, and test the new military organisation we have formulated, as well as showing the Rohirrim that Saruman's power is broken and we are not necessarily an enemy."

Taelan was silent, considering the plan, it really was quite brilliant he thought, and wondered how long Vark had been considering it. "What of Grand Strategy?" he asked, "Why do we not assail Rohan, and if we do not, what use will the thousands in your army be put to?" he asked, he knew Vark's immense pride well, and knew it would be good for the Warchief to hear that it was 'his army'. "Also, omitting myself, we are Orcs you know. From Saruman's notes on the people of Rohan they will not likely consider Orcs allies!" he scoffed.

Vark nodded, considering Taelan's point. "I'm sure many said the same of Thrall and Proudmore during the Third War." He pointed out, "We can burn that bridge when we come to it, anyway, Grand Strategy will consist of consolidating out place in the world. At the moment we are hemmed in by the mountains, Lurtz has informed me of tunnels Saruman ordered dug decades ago; said tunnels lead out to the north and to the west, one going under the mountains into the fells of Dunland. The other, in many sections, leading through the Misty Mountains and stopping in a great dale or valley of sorts far to the north, many leagues away. Apparently these tunnels were either a means of escape if the Wizard's Dale was cut off, or a means to attack Dunland secretly. The northern one's ending location is unclear, but is apparently near enough to both the Dwarven stronghold of Moria, and the elven forest of Lórien, I do not intend to attack those places. Not yet anyway. But we will use the western tunnel in time to conquer the land of Edenwaith, up to the Greyflood, the ruined city of Tharbad and the port of Lond Daer. Both will be garrisoned and rebuilt and at Lond Daer ships will be made, then sent out to trade in the name of the Horde."

"And Rohan?" Taelan asked, after considering the plans and finding no fault in them.

Lurtz spoke this time. "The Warchief has shared his Sight with me." He recounted. "He was Seen a great battle on a plain before a white city, where a white horse will battle a black snake, and a great evil be destroyed. A white horse running on a green field is the symbol of Rohan, therefore, if we assail the country of Rohan in force, this battle will likely not come to pass, and the great evil will not be thrown down and destroyed. The city I think, is Minas Tirith, of Gondor in the East, and they have great friendship with the men of Rohan, who have aided them often in war. Therefore I guess that when the Dark Lord of Mordor advances on Gondor, the King of Rohan will go to war there, and if his strength is too small, that city will fall, and Mordor be triumphant. The Warchief has foreseen that if this comes to pass evil will reign in Middle Earth."

"And obviously this is a bad thing." Taelan said.

"Indeed." Remarked Vark with a twitch of his lip.

"Will we be taking part in this battle?" Taelan asked, his eyes going from Lurtz to Vark.

"It is uncertain." Replied the Warchief slowly.

_Helpful, _thought Taelan. "I fear we will over extend ourselves." He said out loud.

"True," said Vark, "The Uruk-hai are superior to the lesser breeds, they will form the heavy infantry and core of the armies, not the armies entire. Once the mountain tribes of Orcs and goblins, as well as the neutral Dunland groups see our power they will flock to the banner of the Horde." He said confidently.

_Maybe they will, maybe they won't. _Thought Taelan. "Perhaps we should send them an emissary?" he suggested.

"Perhaps." Said Vark.

They halted at the edge of devastation. What looked to be a forest, or the beginnings of one had been cut down for firewood. However, what was obviously so offensive to Vark, from the look on his face, was the amount of branches and boughs still left on the ground.

They rode through the tree stumps, changing direction several times to avoid obstacles. Taelan noticed one grey coloured tree standing out several yards from the tree line and wondered how it had survived being cut down. As they neared it Vark stopped and dismounted. He waked forward and raised a hand.

"I greet you in the name of Earth, Ancient One." He called to the tree.

Taelan briefly wondered what Vark was talking about; however; his musing was put to rest as the tree turned toward them. Its trunk separated to reveal a pair of legs, and two more limbs separated from the main body into long arms, almost reaching to the ground. The tree was tall, but quite thin, and Taelan identified it as a silver birch. The only thing he knew about them was that they burned well, because of resin in their outer bark.

The Ancient, for that was what it was, was at least sixteen feet tall Taelan thought, though some of it may have been branches. It was thinner than Azerothian ancients, but was a different breed of tree, which would account for it. It had few facial features, but a great mossy grey beard and deep green eyes. They seemed great wells of wisdom. Or might if they were not narrowed in anger and directed toward the group.

"_Burárum!" _the Ancient growled at them, taking a step forward angrily and raising a fist.

Vark slowly held out a hand. "I greet you in the name of Earth." He repeated slowly.

The Ancient rumbled deep in its trunk, sounding like a landslide falling down a hill, it was a voice of rocks and boulders grinding together, a voice of ages. The Ancient took another step forward, but stopped short of striking, in two steps it had covered ten feet and now towered over the three.

"_Hoom!_" The Ancient trumpeted, "Why can I not strike you?!" it demanded, its fist still drawn back.

"Because I am a shaman, the forest called and I answered." Responded Vark in an even tone, careful not to upset the large tree.

"_Burárum _ do not care for living things!" the Ancient said loudly, its eyes still narrowed and its beard bristling.

"I am the storm, and I feel your spirit, elemental, as well as the spirits of the forest." Replied Vark, quite cryptically Taelan thought, but the elf supposed that a certain degree of poetry was necessary in speaking with an elemental.

"_Hoom_!" the Ancient said again, but slightly less angrily, and it lowered its fist. "You are the one the forest speaks of?" it asked.

"I am." Replied Vark.

_Who else would it be? _Taelan thought to himself sardonically.

"You will come with me." The Ancient said, still sounding angry, but then walked away, its long legs opening like a scissor with each stride, bending very little at the knee.

Vark looked back at his companions. "It would seem I am summoned." He said, smiling. "Take Blackbite back with you, I have a feeling this is something I must do alone. If I do not return by tomorrow at noon, proceed without me, I will return eventually. Whilst I am gone I expect all this," he indicated the leftover wood, "to be harvested, I will not tolerate wastage."

Vark then walked away following the tree, disappearing into the shadowed depths of Fangorn Forest.

"Where has the Warchief gone?" asked Lurtz uncertainly after a few moments.

"You heard the tree," replied Taelan, gesturing to the forest dramatically, "He has been '_summoned'" _Seeing the continuing look of confusion on Lurtz's face he continued, "It happens occasionally to shamans, a place's spirits are out of balance and one of them will be chosen to mediate, and bring back balance. Odd thing is," the elf continued, "I was under the impression this world didn't have sentient spirits, might bear thinking about."

With that he nudged Silverflood with his leg and turned her around, padding over the ground back to Isengard.

OOoooOO

Nine followed Éowyn down the corridors, her green dress easily visible despite the growing darkness. Greeting several passing sentries he kept his distance, as the Lady kept looking behind her.

_As she should_, thought Nine, _After all, I could have more sinister motives than my current entirely virtuous ones._

Éowyn proceeded quickly to her quarters, how she managed to keep up such a furious pace was a mystery to Nine, when he wore a dress he always found it hard to move it.

_Robes!_ He berated himself after he realised what he just thought. _They're robes when you're disguised as a caster!_

It was something to do with how on the forward step the front hem got under the toe, leading to an embarrassing fall. Good thing the Stormwind canal_s _didn't have crocolisks, regardless of what that little brat said.

Éowyn disappeared round a corner, when Nine got there she had vanished. He saw a door close by and looked round for a place to hide, finding none he braced himself between the two walls, vaulting up and over a barrel and placing one foot on each wall. If anyone saw him like this it would be _very_ difficult to explain. Luckily Éowyn didn't take long, and came out in a hooded cloak in an effort to disguise herself. Presumably she didn't consider that in the more classy areas of the city a raised hood would in fact attract more attention, rather than preserving the identity of the person.

Nine dropped lightly down, briefly noting just how _fun _his job was sometimes. Not the 'running from a pack of dogs and almost being savaged by them times', or the 'being captured and having to watch your team eaten alive by jungle trolls' times either, now he came to think of it, but the joy of the chase, the pursuit across rooftops, even the sense of self-serving pride at the well-aimed crossbow bolt sticking out of the neck of your target.

Though Nine certainly wasn't planning anything of that sort any time soon.

The Lady Éowyn eventually walked through another door, if Nine's bearings were right it would lead to the outside, south if he was not mistaken.

Then again, seeing the dark sky before him as he went through the door, east would do as well.

Éowyn went to another building across the square, based at the back of Meduseld, she threw off her cloak and picked up a sword and shield, donned a helm, then proceeded to start battering away at a wooden post. Occasionally she would dodge to the side, or raise the shield to ward off an imaginary blow.

Nine had found the mystery shield maiden.

However, no sooner had Nine settled down to admire the form of Éowyn's swordplay, and indeed, admire the form of Éowyn's body; the door he had been standing next to was thrown open.

Nine sprang back on instinct, luckily the door opened on his side, meaning he was hidden from view by the wood. Out walked a large, burly, bald man, with a short beard. Nine marked him down as a thug. Then came another of his ilk, this one with a copious amount of black hair, and then a shorter man, with shoulder length hair, smoothed to his scalp. Nine couldn't tell who it was from the back, and soon after a third thug walked out, and took up station by the door, legs apart, thick arms folded, expression no doubt stern.

Nine stuck his head out, intrigued by the proceedings.

The first two thugs flanked the shorter man, and took up stances similar to their friend by the door. By this time Éowyn had realised she was not alone, and turned to face the three, taking off her helm her long hair spilled put like sunlight on corn.

_Where had that come from?_ Nine wondered to himself. He usually didn't go in for spontaneous poetry.

The short man in the middle was gesturing animatedly, and evidently had a great sense of his own importance, Nine caught a few words over the gusting wind.

"…Councillor!...woman…obey!" were some of them. It was at the last word that the oily fellow, who Nine now realised to be none other than Gríma 'Wormtongue', made a move against Éowyn, he stepped forward, and reached out to grasp her hand, or would have done, if Éowyn's sword hadn't snaked out to rest its point at his throat.

Nine opinion of Éowyn went up by several notches, whilst his opinion of Wormtounge went down, already quite low, as was Nine's opinion of all men who wore a dress, he found it amusing that Wormtongue needed three bodyguards, all to converse with a 'mere woman'. But now was not the time for mocking those too unfortunate to have been gifted with eyebrows at birth, Nine would save the day!

After he got past the guard.

And he was a very big fellow.

Going for the simple but unexpected option, Nine reached out and tapped the burly man on the shoulder. He turned slowly, an expression of stupefied wonderment on his face, and Nine sucker punched him on the jaw, then kicked him in the crotch for good measure and walked swiftly to save the damsel. Said damsel was doing quite well by herself, having still got her sword at the neck of Wormtongue, but would inevitably loose against the two larger men, who had hands on knives at their belts.

"I say!" called out Nine as he got nearer, "Is that any way to treat a Lady?" he asked mockingly.

Wormtongue span round with a hiss, seeing Nine and the guard lying on the floor behind him he ordered his remaining guards forward, "Get him you oafs!"

The ensuing fight was brief, and rather brutal, Nine needed leverage for the next part of his plan. He caught the first punch from Tweedledum, and hit his wrist, causing the fist to open, then Nine pulled his fat fingers back, hearing several cracks and snaps from the man's hand. He ducked another punch from Tweedledee and brought his foot up between his legs, then taking a little half step forward kneed him in the face as he toppled over in pain. This all occurred in the space of roughly seven seconds.

Gríma stood there with open mouth. His henchmen having been dispatched or immobilised and himself having an enemy both before and behind him. Nine looked over his shoulder and winked at Éowyn, who first looked shocked, then blushed and smiled brilliantly. She gave Wormtongue a kick in the small of the back, sending him careening forward into Nine's fist.

"Oh dear." Remarked Nine to the groaning men on the floor. "Your master appears to have run into my fist." Said master span around completely and then half again and landed in a heap in front of Éowyn.

"In his proper place before you My Lady," Nine said, bowing low.

"Thank you Lord Nine." Replied the Lady of Rohan. "This is the second time you have saved me."

Nine saw Gríma trying to get away, and out his foot down on his neck, pressing his face into the dust. "From nothing you couldn't have handled I'm sure My Lady, I've seen you practice." Nine said back to her, applying a little more pressure.

Éowyn smiled again, completely ignoring Wormtongue.

Nine noticed a convenient brazier at the foot of the steps going up to Meduseld. He excused himself and hauled Wormtongue up by his robes. Frogmarching the man over he got one hand around the nape of the man's neck and one on his shoulder and thrust his head toward the burning embers. Wormtongue writhed and squirmed at the heat, and began sweating more into his already oily hair and skin.

Nine leant down, "Listen here Worm" he growled, "Saruman wants you back in Isengard, your reports have been lacking of late he says, I'm to take over, if you done leave by morning I'm to kill you, if you don't get to Isengard within a week and new assurance are sent back, I'm to declare you a spy with certain documents and proofs I have hidden." Nine could feel the man's breathing go ragged at the heat and his own fear. He hoped the Worm wouldn't soil himself. "Then again," he breather down the man's neck, "I might just kill you now."

Then the man did soil himself, Nine stepped back in disgust. "Remove yourself from the Lady's presence." He commanded haughtily, gesturing extravagantly with a finger toward Meduseld. "And remember," he called just loud enough for Wormtongue to hear, "If you speak a word to anyone, you'll die in your sleep."

Gríma the Wormtongue took one look back at Nine's innocently smiling face and fled away up the steps, brushing past his now recovered guards.

The guards didn't seem to know what to think as Nine brushed minute particles of dust off his clothes, but they congregated at the foot of the steps. "How is it that a man with such a name as of 'Wormtongue' can achieve an office such as King's advisor?" he asked sidelong to Éowyn, who had stepped forward to Nine's side and he smiled at her, then gave his attention to the three in front of him.

"How would you three like a new job?" he asked them cheerily.

They looked stupidly at each other.

"We're Dunlendings, the Horse Lords hate us." Said the apparently mutually elected spokesman standing in the middle.

"I am not a Horse Lord." Replied Nine plainly.

"You will pay us?" asked the middle one.

"Of course." Replied Nine. "I'll leave you to think about it shall I?" he said patronisingly, "Come see me about arrangements later on if you accept."

The three looked at each other, then coming to a consensus; they nodded simultaneously and ambled off together. Nine smiled, this day was turning out even more profitably than he had thought it would this morning. He now had himself three band new minions.

"That was...Impressive." said the soft voice of Éowyn behind him.

Nine turned. "Thank you Lady Éowyn," he said, and bowed theatrically.

Éowyn laughed again. "It would appear you are more deserving of your name than I thought." She said, "Your reach is as long as your ears."

That confused Nine, and he reach up and checked that he had not suddenly turned into an elf. He had not. His ears were the same, on the sides of his head, and rather small.

"You have a new name among the Rohirrim Lord Nine," continued Éowyn, smiling at his confusion. "Did you now know? My brother started it I think, and named you 'Daeghir', for your skill with a bow, and the surety of your enemy's deaths."

"What does it mean?" asked Nine, as a spy he had usually tried to avoid notoriety, it did not go well with secrecy.

"In Rohirric it is 'He of the Long Arm'" Éowyn told him. "I think it rather suits you."

Nine thought for a moment. "In that case, I am honoured to bear a name of your own fair tongue Lady."

Éowyn blushed again, the colour looking most out of place in the heavy mail and armour she was wearing.

"Shall we go back indoors Lady Éowyn? He asked, indicating the hall. "It is growing cold out." She nodded again and took Nine's proffered arm and they walked back inside. The last thing he noticed as he walked back in was the flashes of lightening from the west, somewhere in the vicinity of Fangorn Forest.


	15. Omakes

_Thanks for the various people who've favourited/followed/reviewed._

_Not quite another chapter, as I'm writing the last thousand words on the latest one, but these two popped into my head as I was writing and I thought I'd upload it, then the actual chapter tomorrow._

**Liberation**

**Chapter 15**

**By FractiousDay**

_A scene inspired by a review by Jarjaxle:_

"I am Vazruk! Merchant of the Horde! My oranges are the best here, you will buy them now!" The Orc merchant grabbed a passing human, "You need vitamin C and K that these provide, you will give me money now!"

The human blubbered and fumbled about his money pouch, Varzuk grabbed the pouch and ripped it off his belt, then let the human drop and grabbed a bunch of oranges from the stall behind him, he threw them at the human and the pouch was put in the strongbox.

"Another successful sale!" bellowed Varzuk, "For the Horde!"

_And another scene, given the Battle of the Black Gate won't be happening (at least in its form in the film/book) I thought I'd cover it._

King Ellesar rode back to the lines, the red eye of Saruon lighting the sky behind him, he canted up, rallying the men around him and began speaking to the host. "A day may come when the courage of men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship!"

Nine looked sidelong at Éomer, "Well that's depressing, and slightly offensive; I think he just accused us of cowardice." He mumbled lowly, Éomer nodded, looking apprehensively at the several hundred armoured trolls on the other side of the plain.

"- and now, on this good earth!" came the shouts from the King.

"I thought everyone said Mordor was a barren and wasted… well, wasteland?" asked Nine again, this time to a Gondorian archer on his other side. "I mean, this is sand" continued Nine, digging his toes into the ground "at least get your soil composition right."

"I bid you stand, Men of the West!" cried the King again, regardless of Nine criticisms.

"That was slightly better." Remarked the Gondorian archer on the right. Éomer nodded from the other side.

"Right." Said Nine, gripping his sword. "What battle cries are we going with?" he asked, looking left and right.

"Elendil." Said the Gondorian.

"Forth Eorlingas." Replied Éomer at the same time.

"I was thinking differently." Said Nine, the other two looked at him interestedly. "In my land," he said, "We have a legend of a warrior who fought the dragons of Blackrock Mountain, he arrived late for the battle, and so, fearing dishonour, charged in regardless without hearing the strategy devised."

"What was the name of this man?" asked a soldier behind him, who had been listening in.

Nine took a slow step forward, and hefted his sword in two hands, and started into a run.

"LLLLEEEEERRROOYYYYYYY JJEEEENNNNKKKKIIINNNSSSS!"


	16. Tear them to Peices

_I have an odd definition of 'tomorrow' _

_In other news, there's a person in Warcraft already called 'Taelan', I actually didn't know, apparently he's a paladin, found that fact particularly amusing._

Liberation

Chapter 16

By FractiousDay

Vark backed up, taking a few steps backwards, then threw himself forward, arms pumping and hurdled over a ditch, pushing past a branch over the gap and swinging on it. The branch was slippery with moss and dew, and it bent like a piece of green wood. Vark came down hard on the other side, his landing spoiled by mud and loose rocks, he crashed forward, arm flailing, trying to grip something to stop the fall. It didn't work, but his fall was stopped partly by a small tree in the way, which snapped under his weight.

The shamen picked himself out of the mud, brushing the worst of it off with a stick. He had been following the tree for hours, and night had fallen some time ago. Vark set off again at a jog, finding new strength to battle through the forest, his limbs aching. Usually he would have been able to run for two days straight, as could most Orcs, however, not in full plate, over the uneven terrain of Fangorn Forest. His armour weighed him down, and he had no backpack or satchel to store it in, therefore, the additional weight on his limbs, rather than his shoulders made it harder to run. Admittedly there was a bright side in the pleasure he took in running down the smaller trees, not being bothered to dodge between them.

The Ancient had stopped briefly to correct him in the first hour of the march, apparently it was an _'_Ent'not an Ancient, an Ent apparently being some kind of tree shepherd. Vark was not entirely sure what difference this made, but accepted the Ent's wishes, after all, it knew best what it was. The Ent seemed very suspicious of him, presumably due to the widespread devastation of the western edge of the forest, but Vark for the most part ignored that, that was a druid's job not a shaman's.

As of yet Vark had sensed no druids around the forest, he assumed there were some present, given the Ent was there it seemed the associated creatures were there as well, it would seem his and Taelan's assumptions on their arrival were incorrect.

Then again, there really might not be any druids here; Ancients appeared in any forest with ley lines going under them, and were the protectors even before the forests were settled by elves.

Vark angrily snapped a branch. The thorns covering it raked across his bicep, not cutting the skin but leaving long pale scratches. The forest was dark, moss covered bows of the trees interlacing above, in some places there were large spider's webs and he heard things scuttling in the dark. The Orc hurdled another tree and skidded down a riverbank, splashing down into the water he waded across, then scrambled up the far bank. Vark was not a particularly skilled woodman, but the Ent's tracks could literally be followed by a blind man. Providing said man could keep up with the tree's furious pace.

Vark ran down another slope, the tree canopy opened briefly, he saw the stars, and realised that they were still traveling east, he saw the mountains to his left, and a bright star that Taelan had informed him was actually an elf in a flying wooden ship. Vark had not understood this reference, and felt that a goblin zeppelin would be much more reliable. On that note, he remembered to remind himself to ask Lurtz if they had any spare hulls lying about, he was thinking of building himself an air force. Long boring journeys seemed to have that effect on the mind. The limbs blurred into movement, eating up the miles, seemingly without his mind concentrating on them, and he was left to imaging grand designs for his people.

Vark skidded down a rocky defile, displacing pebbles as he slid, at the bottom he regained his feet and let out a hand to grab a protruding tree, his momentum converting and allowing him to preserve his speed round the corner. He glanced up and saw the Ent striding between two trees, and zigzagged up the hill, finally hauling himself up a short cliff he paused for breath. He rolled onto his back, the cool rock under him absorbing his excess heat from the run, as he looked upwards from his position the moon shone above him. Pale and beautiful, as brief as it was. Vark could clearly remember the Pale Lady of Draenor, better to him in the short time he was there than the years of Azeroth's twin moons, blue and white, waxing and waning each night.

Bidding goodbye to the moon he rose and ran on before his limbs could start to cramp.

**OOOoooOOO**

"And then," continued Taelan to the avid listeners, "In a heroic last stand Grom slipped past Mannoroth's defences and sliced open his chest. Mannoroth was thus slain by his greatest creation and most favoured pupil, Grom Hellscream — a fitting irony, some might say. The demonic fires erupted outward, destroying the astonished Mannoroth and mortally wounded Hellscream, and so, one of the greatest heroes of the Horde, the one who had first partaken of the demon's blood, also freed the Horde from it."

Taelan sat back on his step, fingers steepled under his chin. Awaiting the response from the crowd gathered on the floor below him. He had deliberately avoided sitting in the suspiciously throne like chair on the raised dais, rather, on the first step of it. Before him were around twenty people, at the front, leaning on the bottom most steps were the group's 'familiars', the children Nine had acquired for their help and knowledge before the events of the takeover of Isengard had been blown out of proportion. The oldest, Morac if he remember the child's name, looked interested, but also disassociated from the tale, it was about Orcs, rather than humans, but he had seemed interested earlier when Taelan spoke about Arthas. The other two, Taelan searched his mind, Loras and Lehah, seemed in awe of the mythical figures in the stories, but also confused at the various complicated plots. Snaga, the goblin creature, not actually a goblin, Taelan had realised, but a sort of experimental thing most likely bred by Saruman before his fall, was wide eyed, no doubt identifying with the characters more than the others due to his race.

It had originally begun as a discussion with Lurtz after the Uruk had come back from the forest, he had been telling the children about Azeroth. Taelan thought he might be being slightly hypocritical in calling them children, him only being a few months older than Morac, but he counted it in maturity, not in years, two years in the Horde's military fighting the finest sentinels Darnassus could offer would mature most people. Lurtz had listened for a few minutes, then hurried off and returned shortly with a crowd of Uruk-hai and larger Orcs, all of them more richly decorated that their fellows, from this, there came more Orcs and men, and even a dwarf, all of them taking a seat on the floor, or standing about at the sides of the room. By the time the story of Thrall's escape from Durnholde and subsequent Orcish rebellion was told the Orcs were cheering, even some of the men, enamoured with the tale of refusal of authority, seeing themselves as the Orcs and the Rohirrim as their oppressors. Then Taelan glossed over the main events of the Scourge's arrival in Lorderon, and instead attributed Arthas' fall to the Burning Legion's manipulations. He then took the story to Thrall again, fighting his way to Kalimdor and forming the Horde, more cheers at this. By this point even Taelan was thoroughly enjoying himself, and made certain to warp the details of the story to suit Vark's leadership, as well as himself, the Blood Elves for instance, were the wronged party by the treacherous human general Garithos, and joined the Horde to fight against the oppressive Stormwind. Amusingly, that was actually the story as Taelan himself had heard it, approximately, he seriously doubted it's veracity, but it was ironic never the less. He himself had virtually no memory of his early childhood, and the earliest distinct thing he _could_ remember was his first sight of the iron gates of Orgrimmar, when he was around seven.

And so, what had originally began as an amusing tale to pass the time rapidly became a history lesson, a multitude gathered and he told the story of the Third War, and much of the rest of the history of Azeroth.

However, this was interrupted by a clamour outside, shouting and a startled oath came from beyond the doors and many of the people in the chamber drew their weapons, turning swiftly to surround the stone portal. Taelan motioned for Lurtz and the Uruk pushed his way through the crowd to find out what was going on. He returned shortly with one of the patrolmen from the Circle wall of Isengard, and came before the throne, thumping his chest once.

"My Lord," he said, "a force of Orcs from Mordor seek entrance at the outer wall."

Taelan paused for a moment, "How many are they?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Many companies lord" replied the Uruk, "A 'battalion' in size, perhaps three thousands of foot, with many warg riders"

Taelan was pleased the new military organisation was being adopted so quickly by the Uruk-hai. The elf pursed his lips in frustration, this force, in addition to the ones sent in secret by the Dark Lord before their arrival would numerically overwhelm the Uruk-hai currently in Isengard if they were to unite. Luckily, Vark had given most of the Common Orcs pause with his defeat of Saruman, and they seemed pleased at being ruled by a fellow Orc, rather than a wizard. Interestingly the actual humans were almost universally distrustful of wizards, and though they may not necessarily _like_ the Warchief, they preferred him to the alternative.

"Find billets for them and their mounts, bring their commander before me." He said to the patroller, then he motioned for the rest of the crowd, "Disperse and be about your business, any Company leaders present remain here." The crowd for the most part grumbled and stretched their stiff limbs, but obeyed, sixteen Uruk-hai stayed congregating around the room to the walls. Morac, Loras, Lehah and Snaga retreated into the darkness in a corner, and Lurtz stepped up to the dais, taking station a step below Taelan. The elf himself took the throne.

Soon afterwards three knocks were heard, and two waiting Uruk-hai pulled open the doors. Into the room came several Uruk-hai, then smaller Common Orcs, in armour of low quality, mainly consisting of iron plates and splinters of wood bound with leather. Following them was a taller Orc, this one similarly dressed, though in better quality, and broader in the shoulder, his legs less bowed that the others.

The Mordor party formed up in the centre of the chamber, hands on their scimitars, the largest in the middle. He had an eye patch, a pink scar running around it and part of the way up onto his head; his right ear was also missing. "I am Gorgol the Beard-Cutter." Declared the aforementioned loudly for the room.

Lurtz leant down "So called for his hatred of Dwarves, he is a hero of the Dwarf-Goblin wars and a survivor of the Battle of Five Armies." He whispered in Taelan's ear.

"I am Taelan Sin'Dorei, known as the Bloody Flame." Replied Taelan, making up a title on the spot.

"Where is Saruman the White?" growled Gorgol, hand on his scimitar.

"Dead." Replied Taelan cheerfully, he had calculated that this army could not have had news of Saruman's 'death' yet, so was using the news as a bargaining tool.

Animalistic sounds came from the Mordor Orcs. Weapons were drawn on both sides. "You killed him?" demanded Gorgol, pointing his sword at Taelan.

"Not I." replied the elf.

"Who?" asked Gorgol, still angrily, but his brow was furrowed now, this was obviously unexpected.

Taelan smiled smugly, then motioned for Lurtz to speak, the Uruk considered for a moment then leapt down from the dais. "Vark! Warchief of the Horde, the greatest Orc to have lived upon Middle Earth!" he shouted, the Isengarders cheered, rattling their swords and clashing them against shields.

Gorgol's eyes went around the room, then snarling he jumped forward as well, "Rak Zírr Zeal Rôma!" Shouted the Orc general, bringing his sabre down on Lurtz's shield.

The ensuing fight was brief, Taelan took part only to tell his troops to take the group alive, and the guards in the room did. Interestingly Morac tackled one of the Mordor Orcs from the side, raining blows on the creature's face with his fists and wrestling a sword out from his enemy's scabbard. Taelan nodded to him appreciatively. Meanwhile, the Isengarder's superior numbers and training made short work of Gorgol's guards, whilst the Orc himself was matched well with Lurtz, the two danced across the chamber, Gorgol's advantages being experience and various dirty fighting techniques, Lurtz's being better equipment and youth. After around a minute of this, Lurtz having been knocked over by a mad rush by Gorgol, Taelan motioned to several other guards who quickly surrounded Gorgol and restrained him. Lurtz snarled at another Uruk helping him up and shook of his help.

Taelan clapped his hands together, creating a small flame briefly that drew everyone's attention. "Take the guards away, put the grunts in a separate room to the General." He commanded, then addressed Gorgol, "Rest assured General, your army will come to no undue harm, when the Warchief returns he will no doubt want to meet with you, until then, don't try and escape." He flicked his wrist again for the Uruks and their charges to depart.

"That was busy." Taelan remarked when they were gone.

Lurtz nodded, the remaining Isengarders laughed, they were a rough bunch, but Taelan liked them.

"What was that he yelled before the fight?" Taelan asked the room at large.

"'Tear them to pieces'" replied Lurtz bluntly.

"Oh." Remarked Taelan articulately, "Anyway, we have much work to do, someone go grab a table and some maps."

While this was being down Taelan descended from the throne, his duties of Regent not necessary anymore, Uruks carried in a table and he turned to Lurtz, the Uruk was wiping a split lip on his sleeve. "Do you really believe that?" he asked.

Lurtz looked up, "Believe what?" he asked, voice muffled by trying not to move his lips as he spoke.

"About the Warchief." Confirmed Taelan.

"Of course." Replied the Uruk with surprising honestly.

Taelan raised an eyebrow.

Instead of Lurtz a different Uruk named Uglúk answered his question. "We are the fighting Uruk-hai." Explained Uglúk, "We were made to be the best fighters among the Orcs, Saruman the Wise, Loremaster created us for that purpose, we are as tall as men and stronger as well." The Uruk paused.

Another Uruk continued, Mahúr, "Then comes the Warchief, he is half again our size, he frees us from the Wizard, from shackles we didn't even know existed until they were broken. Vark defeats the Wizard in combat, with magic and axe, taking his hand in the process and cuts one of the 'fighting Uruk-hai' in half minutes afterwards. Lurtz studied the Histories under Saruman, there has been no Orc as strong or as large as him, some come near, like Azog, or his son Bolg, but neither could use magic."

"He even commands the beasts of the earth." Put in another Uruk, the name of which Taelan didn't know. "The wargs follow him, the birds, he speaks with trees! We have heard you speak before of the War-Shaman Thrall, who freed the green Orcs on your world. Now we have Vark upon this world, Warchief of the Horde, Lord of the Iron Fortress" insisted the anonymous Uruk.

Taelan laughed, he hated to spoil the Uruk-hai's wonder, and could well understand their awe, especially in this world seemingly without magic as he knew it. "True enough," he admitted, "Though when I first met him he was but an Outrider in the army of the 'War-shaman' Thrall, we fought elves for two years together in the camp of the tribe Warsong."

The Uruks leaned forward unconsciously, eager to hear more, but then finally Morac rushed back in to the Throne Room, three lesser goblins trailing after him, all carrying leather satchels filled with rolls of parchment and other stationary and maps.

"A tale for another day." Declared Taelan, holding his arms wide, "As I said, we have much to do, and dawn is fast approaching, I would like _some_ sleep tonight!"

**OOO oooo OOO**

Vark was being hunted.

For over an hour he had heard the small sounds of movement around him, he had passed the foothills of the mountains, and could no longer see Orthanc when he crested the occasional hill. The Ent was long gone, now he relied only on the elements to guide him. He thought perhaps wolves, it smelled like them, canines he was certain of, but wolves would have shown themselves.

The moon illuminated the path before him, the trees forming a tunnel of leaves and trunks for the next quarter-mile he could clearly see from his perch on a rock. Unfortunately the rock was in the middle of a depressed dale, the only distinguishing feature being its overwhelming darkness. The boughs seemed to strain out the light from the moon, only a silvery glimmer alighting on the ground, enough to see by though.

Vark hopped of his rock, jogging down another slope, he saw an obstacle in the path, but had to come closer to see it clearly. The shaman slowed as he neared it, and identified a large animal; eventually he knelt by the corpse of a stag, pausing in his run. The neck of the stag was ripped open, but the points of its antlers were stained with dark blood.

He heard a stick snap behind him and rose, whispering a benediction for the stag's spirit. Vark took his helmet of his belt, donned it, and turned.

"What are you lot supposed to be?" he asked, slightly surprised to see a small pack of worgen occupying the path. He had heard of the wolf-men, but never seen one before.

The middle one, the pack's Alpha loped forward on two legs, standing upright. It came close but made no overtly hostile moves, Vark mirrored it, assessing it but not attacking. It began to circle him, unconsciously he took on the strength of stone from the Earth, hardening his skin, preparing to defend himself from the four.

"Orch?" the Alpha asked gutturally.

Vark nodded, eyes narrowing at the three on the path, the Alpha somewhere of to his left.

"You smell of bright." It told him, and stopped circling.

Vark was understandably quite fed up of cryptic creatures messing about with his business first a tree-man, now wolf-men. Therefore, he recessed back into his ancestral responses, letting the wisdom of the ancients direct his course.

And so, he punched the wolf on the nose, bellowing at it, then laid about the others, fists flying, he only managed to hit one before the other two fled.

He grabbed the first by the fur, "I am tired of distractions, now, I. Am. Busy. What is it you want wolf?" he growled at it, holding it off the ground.

"The birds speak of you." The wolf managed, its nose swelling.

"Yes yes, so the tree said, nothing new." Replied Vark shortly.

"Birds say you defeated the White Alpha." It said.

"That I did, now get to the point."

"White Alpha drove us from woods near tower, we starve, in last Age, was said that the Lords of the Black Land paid us, food and shelter, we scouted for his army." Said the wolf laconically, a by-product of its unnatural jaw structure and a tongue not meant for conversation.

"I have scouts already." Said Vark coldly, "I have no need of you."

"We are better, the dark places in the forest, the shadowed vales, yes, we run faster, longer than horses, wargs, we are stronger, we speak, carry messages." Said the Werewolf hurriedly, seeing Vark's hand curling into a fist again.

Vark's lip curled, but he relented, they could be useful after all. "How many are you?" he asked.

"Many packs, many wolves, hundreds here, more in mountains." Said the wolf.

"Fine." Said Vark exasperatedly, "You have a name?" he asked it.

"Garm." Replied the wolf.

"Well Garm," said Vark to his new Chief of Scouts, he found this situation oddly reminiscent to his meeting with Nine. "Go gather your people, every one of them, I can find uses for them all, send messengers to your kin elsewhere, ask if they wish for food as well, they will work, but I will be fair to them. Come to the Tower when you're ready." He said, and turned on his heel and jogged off again. This trip was proving more profitable than he had thought it would be.

Vark on for another hour, this time the terrain was easy, the slopes steady, and the thorns mercifully absent. At last he came to a clearing and knew that he had reached his destination. He stepped out, the Ent was there, he could see eyes, green and golden in the shadowed trees, of a similar height to the Ent's head. More Ent's then. Vark span at a shriek of an eagle, and felt a shadow pass over him, he turned again to see a truly enormous eagle gliding down, landing on a boulder with a great cloud of blown dust and sticks. Taller than him standing, with a wingspan to match, he suspected that a person could ride it if it would bear them.

He stepped out further, into the middle of the clearing, the eyes in the shadows moved forward, many different types of trees walked out, legs pivoting and swinging like the first's had.

"_Burárum_." Said a large oak, its voice deeper and creakier than the silver birch's

"Get on with it." Replied Vark. "What does the forest want?" he asked.

"The world is sick." The eagle said, looking at him, its beak moving in parody of speech.

"And I'm trying to fix it, my being here is not expediting that. I have already been told this, weeks ago." Rebuked Vark, looking bored.

"Do not be hasty, _Burárum" __the larger Ent told him._

_"I wouldn't have to be if you actually told me what you want. The night is not young, and I have a war to plan." Insisted Vark._

_"We know." Said the eagle, the contempt clear in its voice. "We offer you aid."_

_"Finally." Vark muttered. "What conditions?" he asked, the elements seldom gave gifts._

_"Gwaihir the Windlord, the King of All Birds, bids me tell you that the air has spoken to him, whispered of your purpose. The Eagles will not thwart you as a representative. But nor will we aid you." The messenger said._

_Vark thought that non-interference was all well and good, but he would have preferred something real, he turned to the Ent delegation. "And you Ancients?" he asked them._

_"The __Burárum__ you control will cease their wanton destruction of the forest." The Ent said, swinging its arms from side to side as it spoke. Vark shrugged. He had already ordered that in any case. "For this, we will provide for you one limb of Living Wood to use as you will, though you will no doubt make it into a weapon, it is the way of you kind." _

_That could be useful__ thought Vark, he nodded, accepting the terms. The Ent broke off a limb of wood from a tree, whispering softly as it did so, there was no snap, no tearing, the wood simply 'fell' off the tree. The Ent cast it in front of Vark, who stooped to pick it up. It was slightly thinner than his wrist, just the right width to grasp, and around five feet long. He swung it. Then wondered what kind of weapon to make. _

_Then he remembered his dream, a great maul, the Doomhammer of Thrall. Vark smiled behind his visor, then went to the rock in the centre of the clearing and placed the pole down, standing upright._

_"You reject this gift?" asked the eagle, sticking its neck out from its body._

_"No," replied Vark. "But I have my own conditions." _

_"Speak." Said the eagle imperiously, the Ents creaked._

_"You do not fly near my lands." He told the bird, "You do not bring news of my kin to my enemies, nor do you aid them against me or my folk, you swear to this for you 'King of Birds' or I swear on arrows and bolts, loosed by vengeful Orcs." Said Vark, the eagle made to speak, but he had turned to the Ents. "I will cease the 'wanton destruction', this I swear to, but the logging will continue, my people need lumber, if you interfere I will bring fire and axes to you, that is my pledge. The protection of the forest is your own affair."_

_"Your kind will kill the trees __Burárum." __Interrupted one of the other trees near the oak, shouting in anger, its voice more difficult to understand._

_"I have heard that there are shadowed vales in Fangorn." Replied Vark, overruling it, "Valleys full of evil trees with black hearts. You are tree herds, herd them to Isengard, we will chop them down, and you may save your own trees." He told it, he took the bough of Living Wood, turning it thoughtfully in his hand._

_The eagle was standing on one foot, shifting its weight, wings held slightly out, hooked beak menacing. "You cannot demand Orc." it said, if it had lips they would be sneering. "You are unarmed, you are alone, surrounded."_

_He had them! "I am a shaman you __buzzard__. A shaman is never alone!" he slammed the branch overarm into the boulder, thunder crashed from the sky and the rock split, the branch sprouting roots in seconds, latching onto the rock, he put a foot on it and heaved, the rock cracked again, and in a shower of pebbles and chips of rock the newly made hammer came loose. Vark brandished his new weapon above him, lightning flashed from the clouds, electrifying the dry air, thunder crashed again, the winds swept up, raging though leaves and feathers alike._

_Vark smiled._

_**OOOoooOOO**_

_"You know the original plan." Taelan leant on the table, various maps were spread out and the officer caste of Uruk-hai in Isengard surrounded him, towering over him. He drew a pointy stick across the map, demonstrating. "From Isengard, raiding parties, by my count totalling almost six hundred, however, since the arrival of Gorgol I've decided to add three hundred Mordor Orcs to that, each of you and the other officers will direct thirty Ukuk-hai and Orcs, of your own choosing. Your strategy is your own, as is your equipment, if you can get it you can use it, that counts for Wargs as well." The elf traced a line southwards to the Fords of Isen, and tapped it. "Meanwhile Lurtz will establish a fort here, that will be your fall-back point." _

_The collected Uruk-hai looked disbelieving and made various derisive comments._

_Taelan stabbed the table, shutting everybody up. "You will need to retreat, one thousand Orc-folk will not be able to withstand the Rohirrim cavalry. You raid, you burn, you pillage, the normal, but you do not fight pitched battles." He ordered, maintaining eye contact with the most rebellious Uruks. "Also I need a volunteer to garrison Dol Baran. Take a dwarf and some Mordor Orcs with you, we need a watchtower there, I will not have us taken unawares by the Dunlendings. After the Ford-fort is under construction Vark will reinforce you with a larger army. Then Lurtz can come back and begin the takeover of Edenwaith, beginning with the garrison, renovation and occupation of Tharbad" __tap__, "Lond Daer" __tap__, "and Nan Laeglin." __Tap._

_The discussion went on for another few hours, other advisors and administrators came and left, Morac departed several times for refreshments and Gorgol was eventually brought back for recommendations on which Orcs he would choose for the missions. The General was surly at first, but Lurtz hit him and he became more cooperative. A few hours before dawn, just as the moon had begun to set they finished all the plans. Taelan departed with Lurtz._

_"It is a magical powder." Explained Lurtz as they traversed the tower, passing through the Palantír room and to the laboratory of Saruman. _

_"In what way magical?" asked Taelan as Lurtz opened a door to a storeroom. _

_"Watch." Said Lurtz, taking a torch from a sconce in the wall, he went into the room and took out a handful of coarse grey powder. As he lowered the torch toward it Taelan's eyes widened._

_"If that is what I think it is, what you are doing is an exceptionally bad idea." Taelan told him, holding back the torch. He directed Lurtz to dump the powder on one of the lab benches. Taelan separated the powder into different sized piles, then set one alight. The explosion that occurred was significantly large than anticipated, and destroyed the torch, it's head flying off into Taelan's face. The elf ducked, but was still knocked over. Lurtz raised an eyebrow comically as Taelan pulled himself back up, his face and hair covered in soot._

_"The Fire of Orthanc." Said Lurtz, gesturing grandly._

_Taelan scowled at him, wiping away the soot with a sleeve. "Wonderful." He sighed, pointed to the black powder, "Put it back, no fire to be kept in this room without mine or the Warchief's say so. Actually, no-one to be allowed in this room at all. If that explodes," he gestured to the Store Room of Explosive Death, "the Tower is gone."_

_The Uruk said nothing, but smiled. Taelan had noticed that in Orcish, and indeed in Urukish culture, limited as it was so far, a smile seemed more to be amusement at the suffering of others, rather than at actual humour. Both Lurtz and Vark thought torture was hilarious for instance. They understood jokes, but made few, relying on sarcasm and a caustic dark sort of wit. Their culture was dependent on strength, superiority over others, the Warchief would dominate the lesser chiefs, who in turn were superior to the officers, who were superior to the grunts, who were superior to the peons._

_"That's another thing." Said Taelan, having remembered something else, "Stop calling the slaves slaves." At Lurtz's look he continued, "A people who have been enslaved themselves should not keep slaves, the word you're looking for is 'peon', those unfit for battle, servants and labourers."_

_"Yes Bloody Flame." Replied Lurtz._

_"Not even my title." Said Taelan to the air, then gestured for Lurtz to follow him. "We have yet more work to do. I hope you're not tired yet._

_**OOOoooooooOOO**_

_"Lord Daeghir!" called a gruff voice from outside Nine's room; there was a hammering on the door. Nine roused himself, sitting up in bed. _

_"Come." He said and the door opened, Nine yawned and shook his head vigorously, then went to the bowl of water on his bedside table and drew water from it._

_"My Lord," the Rohirrim addressed him, "The Third Marshal commands your presence." He said, picking up a doublet thrown over one of Nine's chairs, helping the spy on with it to advance his departure. Nine nodded, pulled on his boots and belt and followed the man along the winding corridors to Éomer's rooms at the back of his hall. They came quickly to the Prince's suite, and entered, inside was Éomer himself, dressed as for a riding, with Théodred and Éowyn, another Marshal named Elfhelm and a stranger, also dressed for riding, lastly was Araval._

_"My Lord Nine." Called Éomer, beckoning him over. "We have news of Westfold, a great Orc-host moving swiftly to Isengard."_

_"An Orc-host?" asked Nine, wondering if they were allies or enemies of Isengard._

_"Yes Lord." Said the stranger, "I am Bandon, rider in the company of Grimbold of Grimslade. Two days ago Grimbold received word of a great company crossing over the Entwash; we perused them, and fought with their outriders, but were overcome and forced to retreat back to Grimslade."_

_"You followed them?" asked Éomer._

_The messenger nodded, "Yes Lord, Grimbold himself and three hundred riders, the host passed along the road and over the Fords of Isen, then turned North. We weathered the attacks of their rearguard, but they sent many wargs against us, and we retreated back across the Fords. Grimbold waited there, and sent Captain __Féarn to hold Dol Baran and to give warning of any strike against Westfold. Grimbold dispatched me back to Edoras to alert the Théoden King of the threat."_

_"This is ill news!" cried Éomer dramatically._

_Nine just wished they would get on with it. If there was such a great 'Orc-host' as that this Grimbold fellow couldn't win against it with his army, obviously more men were needed in Westfold and should be dispatched. However, it took the group several minutes of questioning to figure this out. Then there was the problem of leadership, Éomer wanted to go, and would probably be the best to do so, but Théodred was technically in charge of the expedition, given that Éomer's mark was the East, not the West._

_"Send me in your place." Nine put in, talking to Éomer. _

_"Yes, Daeghir, let the ranger prove himself." Endorsed Théodred jovially._

_Éomer considered for a moment. He no doubt thought only he should be leading the force, not Théodred, but Nine thought he had earned the Horse-lord's trust so far._

_"Very well." Éomer said at length. "Lord Nine, I charge you, be the voice of reason to the Prince." He nodded to the assembly and departed. _

_Théodred bounced excitedly, "Well let us be off!" he said quickly, "Daeghir, prepare yourself, you have till dawn, then we ride." And he too departed. Bandon the Messenger stood awkwardly around for a few seconds, then bowed and left._

_Nine yawned again and helped himself to a jug, pouring himself a cup of water, then throwing the last dregs over his face to wake him up further._

_"It comes to my mind." Said the dry voice of Araval from the fireplace. "That the timing of this Orc-host is most convenient." He said._

_"Oh?" said Nine uninterestedly, pouring another cup out._

_"Yes, as soon as an enemy army is sighted on the borders of Rohan one of the last black horses in the stables is found missing, and the quarters of Gríma Wormtongue found empty and abandoned." Araval continued with a twinkle in his eye._

_"Oh. Right." Nine said transparently, Éowyn flashed him a __look__._

_"Did you have anything to do with that Lord Nine?" asked Araval._

_Nine sighed. "I may have threatened to kill him if he didn't leave, but I didn't know about the Orcs." He admitted._

_"Indeed?" asked Araval, "Most extraordinary, you are a surprising man Lord Nine."_

_Once again, Nine did not know whether to take Araval's comments as a compliment or not._

_"Well." He told them, "I must go find my gear, I will return." He said, and turned to go._

_"Lord Nine." He heard Éowyn call from behind him, the first time she had spoken so far, "take this with you." She told him, drawing a cloth from her sleeve. She handed it to him, a green field with a white horse running on it. Nine smiled gently at her and took it, folding it and placing it in his sleeve. Inside he was feeling apprehensive. Shaw had told him never to accept any form of small cloth handkerchief from a highborn woman. That was for knights, not spies, and could apparently lead to nothing good. Personally he couldn't see what all the fuss was about._

_He bowed again, bad them farewell, and rode off into the night atop his grey horse, bound for Grimslade._

_**OOOoooOOO**_

Cahill Darkwood buckled on a breastplate; the former Dunland chief could find no backplate to go with it, but took also a round wooden shield with his sigil, a black pine tree on it, he had his longsword and hatchet, and his warg was saddled, he was ready.

Cahill looked over toward Umbaron, the Southron was kneeling on a mat, bobbing up and down and mumbling to himself.

"Hurry up." He called over to the praying man, having no reckoning of what god he worshiped and having no fear of it either. The Dunlending walked over to his men, only seven actual men, then a dozen Uruk-hai and as many Orcs, all mounted on Wargs, though none wore metal armour, only a collection of mass produced leather for the Uruk-hai and the usual botched jobs Orcs invariably made themselves. Some had bows, others spears, all had swords and daggers. The Uruk-hai and his own men would be the fighters, he thought, then the Orcs the skirmishers or scouts.

Cahill tugged at his beard, then ran a hand through the short blonde hair on his scalp, freshly cut from the night before. He looked over to Umbaron, who was crouched on the floor, rolling his mat up. The Southron secured it with a cord, and threw it over his back, as he turned gold glinted in his hair, and the scarlet tunic he wore contrasted sharply with his black skin.

"I am finished." Said Umbaron walking forward.

"Good." Replied Cahill laconically, the Southron was always ready to march, but needed to pray often, which slowed him down more.

"You have a plan?" asked Umbaron, his voice deeper than the other local men, his raiding party had no men in it, rather only Uruk-hai.

"Aye," replied Cahill, "I'm taking mine across the River as soon as we leave the Vale, West Emmnet will be deserted, I'll strike down south from there, then join up at the fords."

"I will join you."

"Oh will yeh?" Cahill asked, rounding on the other man, slipping briefly into dialect in his annoyance with the Southron's presumption.

"The Regent told us our strategy was our own; thirty and three are too small a force for anything other than a small village, seventy will be enough to raid a proper town, more loot for all." Umbaron presented logically.

Cahill saw his reasoning, and attacking a town would be dangerous without proper force, and just a day earlier, when he has been informed of his new rank he had thought about attacking Grimslade or the West Emnet. With the Southron's troop he could make it a real fight.

"I accept." He said, holding out a hand, Umbaron grasped his wrist it was agreed. They went back to their armour, the other man pulling on a leather vest riveted with iron studs. They walked to their mounts; wargs bore men as easily as Uruks, and faster, as the weight was reduced. As they mounted Cahill surveyed the new troops to join in his scheme, whilst his men were mainly archers and fast moving skirmishers, as fit the Dunland tradition, Umbaron's were armoured in iron plates, and wielded great scimitars and shields.

The alliance between the two men moved slowly along the tunnels, out into the dawning sun, the light was grey, as was everything else in the early morning, the sun not yet peeking over the encircling arms of the mountains. Dawn broke late in Isengard, several hours after the rest of the world, the mountains were tall and steep in the east, and only ended a few miles out from the Circle-wall. They rode mainly in silence, the huffs of the warg as they walked and the low murmurings of the men.

There were no grand speeches, no triumphal procession out the main gate, the only contact they had with the Command was a party of Uruk-hai waiting at the gate, as they passed through each chest was stamped with a white hand, and each officer given a black banner with a similar sigil. Most of them knew about the deception, a few were stupid enough to believe that they still fought for the Wizard, but Cahill knew better, the banners and paint were an elaborate plan to fool the Horse-lords, he had heard grand plans about the fires, and seem some red sigil like a crescent facing down on a another black field. No better in his opinion, but both promised war against Rohan, so he was content.

The seven hundred soldiers of the false White Hand rode and marched out of Isengard as the sun broke over the furthest mountains of Ered Nimrais, Cahill slowed his mount to a walk, allowing the rest of the army to get a good deal ahead of him before he turned off the path, he sighted Umbaron, slowly leading his troops into the bushes on the side of the path, fading into mist and shadow as they went. Cahill plunged on after him, his armour making short work of the branches as they whipped back behind him. Within sight then was the river Isen, named in Elvish as 'Angren', they came to it swiftly and counted their men, all were accounted for. Cahill looked for Umbaron again, the man had removed his head cloth and stowed in in a bag, his hair now held back with scarlet ribbons to match his shirt and a gold clasp. The Southron gave a nod back, and dug his heels into the sides of the mount, spurring it forward toward the river, Cahill followed him, tying string around his waist and around the handles of his weapons to keep them in scabbard. Behind him their men were doing the same, some removing their armour and stowing that too. Finally they were ready, and Cahill plunged into the river, gasping as the cold washed over him, splashes came from around him, muffled by the low-lying mist that shrouded the land. They swam quickly and soon reached the far bank, checking his equipment the exile Dunlending mounted again, his force forming up behind him. His warg shook itself of the water and rolled in the grass to get any remaining water from its outer coarse coat, the soft inner lying keeping it warm while swimming.

Cahill heard teeth chattering and looked back, everyone was mounted and they rode out to the first hostile action of the Rohan-Isengard War in the greater conflict of the Third Age.

**OOOoooOOO**

_Got the orcish Gorgol shouts from the Hobbit, Azog says it after they escape from Moria, rendered it as best as I could._

_Also, if anyone thinks Vark is being portrayed as Overpowered, he is, for an Orc in LotR, but not for an Orc in Azeroth, important to remember that, for instance, he'd be no match against the Witch King or similar powerful magical characters._

_Reviews ect. welcome as always._


	17. Wraiths on Wings

_Huzzah for over a hundred thousand words, I feel like a proper author. I must confess some disgust at the swarms of stories on Fanfiction which are 3k words long and have the word 'ABANDONED' in their summary. At least make an effort.s_

_The sequences this chapter at Dol Baran are actually quite accurate portrayals of 6__th__ to 8__th__ century warfare in western Europe, the use of a shield wall and its constituent parts as well as the Svinfylking or 'Swine Array' to attack a shield wall. I've always imagined Rohan as the Saxons and the Dunlendings as the Native Britons/Welsh of Middle Earth, so I've used the relevant military tactics of those people as placeholders for their respective armies in Arda._

_Note that thought he Rohirrim are taking a beating in this chapter, this should in no way be taken as cannon, on an open field, mounted on their horses and in proper formation they are virtually unbeatable, as any heavy cavalry force is, at the moment though they are quite scattered and leaderless, so are significantly less effective._

_Also, as easy, and indeed as fun as the battle scenes are, I have the feeling I'm writing to much strategy and not enough actual story. I find strategy is useful for visualisation, but admit it can be boring if there's too much of it, so let me know which way you think about it._

**Liberation**

**Chapter 17**

**FractiousDay**

Nine clutched at his horse's mane as it thudded across the moonlit plains. Théodred had pushed them hard, wishing to reach Grimslade quickly, however, it was a thirty hour ride by the fastest horses and frequent change-overs, therefore for the éored it was more of a two day ride, Bandon the Messenger had given the estimate of dusk on the second day for their arrival and they had rode quickly for a day already.

The troop came slowly to a halt, the column breaking apart and forming a knot around Théodred. By the Prince's order Nine was stationed in the third rank, the place where the pace was fiercest, having to both spur on the men in front as well as outrun the ones behind for fear of being run over. Nine did not know the reason for the stop, but directed his course to the Prince and Bandon, who had attached himself to the command squad, made up of the Prince's boon companions and personal retinue. However grudgingly, Théodred allowed Nine a place on his council as a representative of Éomer, the Prince clearly did not like the idea of a foreigner interfering with Rohirrim affairs, but heeded his cousin's council.

"What is it? Why are we stopping?" Théodred asked the outriders, those mounted on the swiftest horses that would range ahead of the column and scout out the land.

"We have reached the fringes of the North Downs." Replied a man, "The land is rocky from here and cannot be crossed at speed in the dark. And the moon is not bright enough for safety." He said.

"Then we must go around!" replied Théodred indignantly.

"We cannot Lord." Interjected Bandon, "You insisted on the most direct route, this is it, if we were to go around we would have to retrace our trail back toward the capital for at least half a day, then it will be the same time to Grimslade but a more tired éored."

Théodred hit his saddle horn is anguish, "Very well." He said at length, "Set up camp." And dismounted, taking his sword belt and armoured tunic off and handing them to another Rohirrim.

Nine looked at Bandon and the outrider, his eyebrows raised. Bandon shook his head, the outrider sighed, neither had been able to persuade the Prince of their preferred route, and they had quickly given up some time in the second hour of the ride.

Nine dismounted, gripping the saddle as he stepped down, his thighs and buttocks were sore from the quick pace, he was not a natural rider and didn't not enjoy long journeys quickly on a horse, and only a week ago he had ridden over a hundred miles from Isengard at a similar pace. Apparently the effort was catching up with him.

Nine joined Théodred and his officers at a fire, levering himself down with a sigh. One rider gave him a sympathetic look and offered his a drink of some fiery liquid in a skin. Nine accepted it gratefully, though he might not enjoy their horses, he did enjoy the company of the Rohirrim.

"Tell me of your city." Commanded Théodred to Bandon, "For I have never visited."

Bandon considered for a few moments, "Gimslade is a town set upon a steep shelf." He said, "It is told in the histories that a great King was buried in the barrow near it, and men came after and made a town there."

"Which King?" asked Théodred awkwardly.

Bandon stuttered, "I know not Lord, it is merely an old story."

Théodred snorted, taking a swig of his own skin.

Bandon continued: "Highest on the hill is the hall of Grimbold, who is lord of Grimslade and a lesser marshal of the country, normally he maintains a garrison of two hundred riders of the town and another hundred who journey around the land as his personal éored, a further number that has never been counted are about in the countryside, ready to answer the marshalling call."

"But?" asked Nine.

Bandon inclined his head to the spy. "After they were driven off at the Fords, Grimbold sent most of his men north to watch for the return of the Orc-host and gone himself, leaving his son, Ungerth, in command. Now there are perhaps sixty in the town. The garrison Captain, a very valiant man by the name of Féarn, son of Gralan, was dispatched tohold Dol Baran and give notice of any doings in Isengard."

"Good." Said Théodred generously as if he had not actually been listening. "We shall wait for Grimbold's return there."

"I do not think he will return there." Said Bandon quickly, "He spoke of going to the Western plains, near to Helm's Deep to join forces with Erkenbrand of Westfold, and to gain council of the plans of Erkenbrand in his fastness of Helm's Deep."

Théodred sat silently for a few moments, "We will continue on to Grimslade." He announced, "and there we will await word of Grimbold, and where he may be in Rohan, and what his designs are, there I shall recall the riders dispatched north and we shall then ride for Helm's Deep to join with Grimbold and Erkenbrand."

Nine once again raised his eyebrows at the messenger and the outrider, it seemed to him an exercise in futility to go charging about the land every which way without proper information, tiring out the horses. Also, if there was an army gathering to prevent the so called 'Orc-host' surely the might of Rohan should be assembled, ten thousand riders Éomer had mentioned in conversation with him, perhaps six thousands of which could be spared from their homes and the protection of their lands. The spy knew for fact there were two thousand under a marshal named 'Elfhelm' in the Eastfold, staggered in a line leagues long from north to south, protecting the road to Gondor from roving bands of Orcs and wild men out of the forest. However, evidently the Prince had no notion of where any of these actually sensible lords were in his own country, and was actually just blundering about, pretending to know what he was doing.

As Nine unrolled his bedroll, the rough blankets padding out the hard ground, he lay down to sleep, the last thoughts he had before drifting off into blessed unconsciousness were that he would have much preferred to be riding with Éomer and his éored, at least they would not lead him into what felt very much like a trap.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

Dawn crested over the undulating hills of Rohan. The pale sunlight glinted of new dew on the grass, of pools of standing water, and of the weapons and armour of a troop of soldiers bearing the device of the White Hand. The troop was roughly forty strong; one had a banner in the middle, and was lying down behind a hill. All were silent; this was because only a scant few feet away a woman was collecting herbs in the grass on the other side of the crest of the hill. The leader of the troop removed his helmet and passed a hand through his blonde hair, then he carefully replaced the helmet and made a signal with his hand, another man, this one with dark hair quickly ran to the top of the hill, drew his bow with a slight creek and loosed, the arrow taking the woman in the neck, blood spurting out onto the grass, her basket falling from limp hands as she vainly tried to stem the bleeding.

"Get 'em lads!" yelled the blonde warrior, hefting a round shield adorned with a pine tree, he ran forward, silencing the woman's pain with a backhand swing of his sword.

The troop screamed battle cries and ran after him, some mounted on great wolves loped ahead, losing arrows and taking a wide circuit of the village to make sure no-one ran. Cahill himself blocked a wild stab from a pitchfork wielding farmer and ran the man through, then raised his shield to stop an arrow aimed for his throat. His men and Orcs rallied around him and the body surged forward. Just as the villagers formed up around a longhouse in the centre of the settlement a clamour went up from the other side of the village, wargs with huge riders swept in at the rear of the villagers, at their head a dark skinned man with a shining scimitar, the curved blade chopping through a man's neck, the head going flying.

Cahill battled a large man with an apron, most likely a blacksmith, probably the protector of the village he used two large hammers which he swept around him, holding off several foes just as they did not prefer to be hit by the weapons, regardless of armour. The blacksmith battered on Cahill's shield, but the Dunlending chief pressed forward, shield raised above him, his arm deadened by the blows, finally he saw an opening and took it, his sword taking the man in the neck, just as steel sprouted from between the man's ribs. Cahill wrenched his sword free, the blacksmith sliding off the blade. The other attacked was Umbaron, he grinned at him, white teeth flashing in the morning, light, then gave a cry in his own language and ran on, hacking away at the villagers.

Soon the fight was over, the decision to merge their forces had been a good one, and two other villages as well as a cattle pasture and a logging camp had already fallen to their combined force. Then had worked on their tactics as the rode, practicing different attacks and stratagems to fight, as Cahill's troop were faster they acted as scouts, using their bows to harry and surround an enemy before Umbaron's heavy cavalry crashed into them, cutting all down. In each village they had interrogated the prisoners before killing them, they had no use for captives, nor could they take them back to Isengard unmarked though hostile country. However, they did not know the land about them, and each prisoner gave a more detailed picture to their minds.

Since crossing the Isen near Isengard the group had moved south-east at a fast pace, taking the hamlets in turn, then rushing quickly to the next before any force could be arrayed against them. A line of smoke off to the north gave signal to the latest burning the previous night.

Cahill stalked about the village, poking piles of hay with his sword to ensure no one was hiding in them, he heard a whimper from one as he approached, and steadily walked on. Then he signalled some of his troop to follow him after making a circuit around the barn the Rohirrim were hidden in. Hiding behind a hut, he jabbed his hand forward and his men leapt out, one jumping full on the hay to prevent escape, the others wading in and feeling around for the fugitives. After a short struggle they brought out two young men and a girl of maybe fourteen years. Cahill motioned for the prisoners to be brought along with him and crossed the main square to the longhouse. Outside Umbaron had the prisoners lined up, all kneeling and being held by an armoured Uruk, around twenty in total.

"More prisoners for you Southron." He told Umbaron as he neared.

"My thanks Dunlending." Replied Umbaron before swiftly cutting the throat of one, this was repeated with several other prisoners till the rest were quaking in their various footwear. Then Umbaron stepped back. "Where is the gold?" he shouted at them, "The silver? How many villages are in the surrounding lands? Where is the closest? How is the town of Grimslade garrisoned? What news of the King and the land?" These questions were repeated individually to each prisoner, if they gave an incomplete answer, or refused to speak entirely, Umbaron would cuff them, if they refused then he would give an Uruk leave to beat them further, if they still refused their throat would be slit and the body would invariably fall to the ground, thick dark blood bubbling up from the windpipe.

"The gold!?" Umbaron yelled at one old woman, "Where is the village store? Where is the money kept?" he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. The old woman knelt resolutely and watched a corpse of another man, possibly her husband. Umbaron shouted an oath at her and swore, but seeing his had no effect ordered her killed anyway and walked back to Cahill.

The Dunlander watched dispassionately as another person was killed as an Uruk took over the questioning, not even bothering to ask questions to the final few before he killed them.

"One of them had some knowledge at least." Remarked Umbaron in his deep baritone as he stood next to Cahill. The Southron spat on the ground, "They are puny folk these horse-men, they would last six days in Harad before being killed."

Cahill ignored him for the most part, and pointed to the longhouse, "Dig at the corner-posts" he ordered three Common Orcs of his company, "That is a favoured hiding place."

"Yes, you three help them." Said Umbaron to another set of Uruk-hai in the second troop. They watched as the six went into the building, soon the sounds of breaking furniture were heard and then of exertion as they dug into the base of the building. "That one spoke of Grimslade." Noted Umbaron, pointing with his scimitar at on young man, his scalp washed with red.

Cahill's ears perked up, Grimslade was the prize.

"He spoke of the garrison, two hundred knights he said." Continued the Southron, "But they are gone from the town, and only sixty remain, we can best sixty in battle." He insisted.

"Perhaps." Replied Cahill, though his wish was indeed to strike a proper blow at the hated Thieves of the North, he did wish to live to relish the revenge, not die under the hooves of the legendary cavalry of Rohan.

"We can!" insisted Umbaron again, "Our tactics work, we have seen this, you wish to kill this 'Grimbold' do you not?"

"Aye."

"Then we ride for Grimslade!"

Cahill thought for a moment, the troop was setting the town on fire, going from building to building and trailing a torch on the thatch for a few seconds, then after they had finished throwing the torch through a window. Several houses were burning merrily, the thatch caving in in a great 'woosh' and setting the rest of the building on fire. A shout came from the longhouse and out rushed the workers, carrying a chest encrusted with soil. They set it down before the two men, Cahill stooped, held out his hand and smashed the lock with a hammer he was passed. As he opened the lid he gazed on a hoard of silver coins, as well as some gold, all minted with a crude horse head. As captain of the party he had first pick, he dug around in the chest for a few seconds, trying to find anything other than silver coins. There were a few gems, a ruby and another brown oval stone but he did not take them, instead opting for currency more easy to spend. He took a handful of silver and added it to the saddlebag of his mount, the meagre contributions of the other stashes they had uncovered. Umbaron took the ruby and the other gem, raising both to the sky and kissing them, then sinking to his knees on the ground and performing his daily prayers.

Cahill seized a torch from one of his guard and threw it over arm onto the thatch of the longhouse, it flew end over end before landing on the top of the roof and rolling down, setting a line of fire. The troop scrambled for the chest, each taking a share of the treasure, the Uruks more often than not elbowing the rest out of the way to stuff a few coins into their pouches, the Orcs getting the least, but being satisfied with the shininess of the coins, as they coveted such things.

Cahill walked mounted again, calling for the rest of them to mount up, as usual Umbaron was the last, rising and then throwing himself on his warg, he joined Cahill by the last two prisoners, the girl Cahill had retrieved from the haystack, now cradling the head of one of her friends discovered with her, sobbing into his hair.

"I still do not understand why we must let one go each time we raid a place." Grumbled Umbaron lowly to Cahill.

"You heard the Regent," said Cahill back to him, this discussion was old. "Now speak the words."

"How many does it take to deliver a message?" asked Umbaron to the sobbing girl in the Common Tongue.

"One." Replied Cahill, and swept his sword down on the boy's neck.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

Taelan was teaching.

"So when you meet a friend upon the battlefield, and he walks over the corpse of an enemy, you will greet him with 'Lok'tar!' for this means 'Victory' in the True Orc Speech, and victory is ever the hope in battle." He said.

The elf had been meandering over the different languages of Middle Earth and after reading a scroll penned by some long dead King of Men he had come across the passage:

'_for we could not understand the foul Orcs, for their speech was black'_

This had given him the idea to teach Vark's army Azerothian Orcish. This would enable them to understand the other two forces arrayed against them, that of the Men and Elves and Dwarves, and the servants of the Black Land, whilst they themselves would remain in secrecy when yelling orders across the battlefield. For instance, if you heard your enemy's commander shout 'shore up that left flank' you would then know to attack the left flank quickly, as it was buckling.

"And when given an order." He called to the mass of Uruk-hai standing before him, "you shall reply 'Zug-zug' to your superior, which is an acknowledgement, and shows that you have understood the message and will obey." There were a few mumblings of the words repeated by Uruks who wanted to speak the phrase before committing it to memory. Though Orcish was harsh and guttural, it was nothing compared to the Black Speech of Mordor, which actually hurt the ears to listen to.

He saw the Uruk-hai's faces brightening and they stood up straighter, no doubt filled with a sense of pride or some such.

"Finally for today," he continued, "when you are victorious, when you crush your enemy, when he flees before you, when you hear the lamentation of his woman, there is one thing you shall say:"

"Lok'tar Ogar!" arose a roar from behind him.

Taelan span round, silhouetted impressively against the sky was Vark, once more with his helmet, flourishing aloft a large hammer. Taelan thought how similar he might look to the descriptions of Orgrim Doomhammer in the Second War, striding about smiting humans and Orcs alike with the legendary mace.

He wondered vaguely where he had acquired the hammer from.

Vark jumped down from his perch, Lurtz walked forward and Vark clasped him by the arm, and then repeated the gesture with Taelan, the Orc's arm even larger than usual covered with armour. However, with Vark's arrival, Taelan was a happy elf, the duties of state were beginning to wear on him, and he knew his default strategy of 'kill it with fire' wouldn't always work.

"How was your trip?" he asked.

"Profitable!" exclaimed Vark happily, "The trees won't attack us, we can still harvest lumber there, some worgen wandered across my path so I recruited them into the Horde, and I got this." He said, hefting his hammer.

"So it was just lying about was it?" Taelan asked sceptically.

"Obviously not." Replied the straight-faced Vark, "As a peace offering of sorts the Ent gave me what he called a bough of 'Living Wood'."

"And of course, you made it into a weapon." Taelan said, "Why am I not surprised?" Living Wood was indeed know to be an important ingredient for the construction of magical weapons, but mainly of staffs and wands, he hadn't ever actually heard of anyone making it into the haft for a hammer.

Vark laughed merrily, swinging his new hammer back and forth. "And how have you been?" he asked Lurtz. The Uruk seemed slightly off-put by Vark's cheerful attitude, but took it in his stride.

"The Regent has been telling us of the Third War and educating us in True Orcish custom." He said, indicating Taelan.

"Regent?" Vark asked with raised eyebrow.

"Someone had to be."

Vark shrugged, "Anything else of note?"

"Dispatched the raiding parties, they should be at the Fords by now" Taelan said, "Oh, and we declared war on Mordor."

Vark raised his eyebrow again.

"Oh Lurtz can tell you about it, I have to get to the tower," Taelan turned to Lurtz, "don't take more than three hours, after that I need you both at the tower, we have business to attend to, I'll send a servant to find you if you lose track of time."

Taelan turned on his heel and moved through the crowd of Uruk-hai who swarmed around Vark, climbing aboard Silverflood he journeyed first to one of the secondary pits, this one a tanning and leatherworking centre. Descending by a ramp he dismounted at the bottom and made his way further into the underground, in addition to leatherworking, this part of the industry of Isengard worked on cloth also. The elf pushed open a door and wandered along a passage, heading east. Inside was a steamy area, open to the sky by a fissure in the rock above with large vats of colourful fluid, above the vats standing on platforms or simply standing in the vats themselves were a variety of people, each of them performing some vital part of the cloth making and dyeing process.

Taelan strode to a series of stalls set in one side of the pit. "Hail!" he cried as he neared and an answering call came from within. As he ducked under a cloth serving as a partition he came across a tall woman with a bolt of purple cloth, as she had the right of way he pulled the cloth aside again and ducked under the bolt as she passed, the woman started, but them nodded at him and went on.

The Regent came to a man directing several other tailors and clothmakers and greeted him, clasping his hand. The overseer was in fact, just the same that had originally measured him along with Nine around a week ago. The tongueless father was nowhere to be seen. Taelan did not know the name of the man, however, nor did he need it, so addressed him as a friend, even though he knew next to nothing about him.

"Greetings Regent" said the man.

Taelan was continuously surprised at the rate at which rumours spread about Isengard, but supposed he shouldn't be. "Good Day, I have come about a rather large order the Warchief will require at some point."

"Oh yes?" asked the Head Tailor, "What would this order comprise of." he shooed away several flocking sub-tailors and gave the elf his full attention.

"Mainly Tabards," replied Taelan simply, "Given the organisation of the hosts of Isengard I thought that it would be prudent that the officers can be recognised in battle quickly, and therefore should have a particular cloth to show their status, also, other tabards or similar identification will be necessary, as well as many banners of assorted types. Lastly a more personal matter." He said, indicating his now thoroughly foxed garments he had scavenged from Jareth of Tharbad's quarters."

"I see." Said the tailor and gave order for a gathering of his most senior underlings, "let us walk lord, and discuss your own clothes as my subordinates gather for the larger order, of what type would you prefer, robes? As would befit a magister as yourself? Or hose, as you seem to have modified." He said, motioning to the slit down the legs of Taelan's robes.

"Neither," replied Taelan, "but perhaps a modification of the latter, I wish for a cloak with attached doublet, in the style that it might cover me as hose and trousers, but not impede walking or riding."

"Ah, in the form of a long coat then, of what colour?" asked the Head Tailor, noting the specifics on a spontaneously appearing slate.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

Féarn, son of Gralan, Captain of the Garrison of Grimslade stood at the summit of Dol Baran, his men gathered about him, following the passing of the Orc-host he had been dispatched to hold the tall hill in case of a sortie down the Vale and had seen nothing but the wanderings of packs of wolves so far. As he gazed out over the green lands he saw a rider cresting over the summit of a far hill. Calling for his men to stand ready he climbed down and met the rider at the bottom of the hill.

"Foes!" yelled the scout as he came in, leaping from his horse and making his way to the Captain, "A party of Orcs and Wild-men coming down the Vale, heading here."

"To arms! Ware, ware!" shouted Féarn and ran back up the hill. As he reached the top and drew his sword he turned and saw the enemy. Crossing swiftly through the fields of lavender and long grasses were indeed a party of Orcs and men, he heard the sound of a bowshot behind him and saw one Orc fall, and arrow in his gut, five more were killed as they approached before the bowmen among his group drew their own swords and axes.

The calm before the storm was short and uneasy, and soon the two forces met, Féarn spilled the first blood with a strike against a screaming Orc, whilst the Wild-men crowed and bellowed, crashing against the shield wall. Spear throwers at the back of the block hurled their projectiles, and the same happened with the other side. Féarn felt his shield shake as an Orc hacked at it with his sword, he waited for the man in front of him to give the customary shove so that he could dart his own sword over and stab the attacker in the neck.

All along the shield wall similar events were happening, the first line held their shields across their bodies, overlapping with the men next to them, whilst the second line, of which Féarn was part of, held theirs above the first line. Those with swords would wait for a moment to strike whilst those with axes would use the back of the blade to hook their enemy's shield and pull it down. Some men struck at the ankles of the Orcs with shortswords and long daggers, and more stood on the flanks, fending off wargs with spears.

The terrain of Dol Baran meant that they could stand with their backs to a series of boulders, some the furthest outliers of the Misty Mountains, the standard of white horse and green field fluttering resolutely in the wind. This was a strong defensive position, and meant that they could hold for a long time before they were overcome. Of the hundred or so men he had originally commanded perhaps twenty had fallen, mostly on the flanks where they could not retreat to the safety of the formation. The Orc band meanwhile, though being larger by fifty, had taken twice as many casualties, and so, with skill and luck they would outlast the Wildlings and Orc-folk.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

Following the arrival of the Mordor army under Gorgol the Beard-Cutter a great work had been started, the reason for this was that with the new influx in Uruk-hai in the pits, as well as the various small groups of Dunlendings coming in up the Vale, the Ring of Isengard was quite crowded. Therefore, three thousand Orcs and their warg cavalry made for extremely cramped quarters. To remedy this, the gates had been shut and the Mordor Orcs had to camp outside. Feeling somewhat put out about this, the captains among the host had come across a large pile of wood (in fact the lumber store from one of the work groups in Fangorn forest) and had re-purposed it.

From this had rapidly grown Blackmarch Fort. The walls were rickety, the huts rough and the ramparts crude, but what was rather impressive was that it had been constructed in less than ten hours.

The Warchief Vark and his second, Lurtz rode through the gates, perhaps somewhat imprudently though it may have been, riding into a potential enemy's camp virtually alone but for their personal guards of Lurtz's own command, the two Orcs felt remarkably safe.

"So you let him go?" Vark asked.

"The General decided to reserve judgement for the moment, provided he was billeted again with his own men." Explained Lurtz, continuing his briefing from earlier.

Vark wondered at the wisdom of that also. However, most of the Isengarders seemed to be in awe of him, maybe that extended to the Mordor lot. "So where is he?" he asked Lurtz, looking around the camp.

"There I should think." Replied Lurtz as they rounded a corner, pointing toward a taller building, a standard showing a red eye flying above it, they made for it and dismounted and entered. Inside it was dark and smoky, an entirely inappropriately placed smoke-hole making the peak of the roof unseen as a result of the thick smog. The layout was traditional for the mean of that area, meaning rather that there was a circular affair, seating on benches around the room and a fire pit in the middle, a log crackling. Across the log's length was a chair and seating for the higher-ups in the force.

Vark and Lurtz stood for a moment, then walked on, Vark in the middle of the chamber and walking in a direct line, Lurtz skirting around the edge of the burning wood, clutching a short flagstaff he had brought with him, its black banner furled. However, Vark seemingly to walk straight through it.

In actuality what was happening was that Vark was asking the fires to burn around him, and not to burn him, this created the effect of the flames on the log arching around and away from him, a forbidding display for the Mordor Orcs, and many muttered such words as 'Ghâsh' which meant 'fire' in the Black Speech, and was an fearful omen. Lurtz was less scared, but no less impressed as the Warchief walked undauntedly through the fire. Some of the weaker areas of the wood collapsing entirely under his weight, great gouts of sparks and smaller flames went up each time this happened, swirling around the Orc, the glowing embers lighting up his black armour with an unearthly glow.

Finally Vark stepped down, having thoroughly intimidated the visitors and their chief Gorgol who was sitting on a great wooden chair made of pieces of wood hammered haphazardly together.

"You are Vark?" asked Gorgol scratching his orbital bone around his missing eye.

"I am." Replied Vark solemnly.

"The rumours are true." Muttered Gorgol to himself, "You killed Saruman?" he asked.

Vark held up his hammer.

Gorgol sneered at him but said nothing, contemplating.

Vark removed his helmet and hung it from his belt, he no longer needed it to intimidate, and the effect was done. He looked around him, the Orcs were sorry specimens by his standards, thin and underfed, but he had to admit, they would be hardy in a fight, to a man they were battle-worn and obviously experienced. But they still disappointed him.

"This is not how Orcs should live." He said to himself. "Let us have clean air, not this depressing fog." Then he raised his hammer again toward the ceiling and swept it in a circle, drawing forth the powers of Air. A great wind blew through the entrance, scattering bowls and sending some flying about the room in a controlled tornado. The smoke scattered before the wind, dark streams of soot being sent out the smoke-hole. Not-so-coincidently the banner adorned with a red eye at the peak of the structure was torn from its standard pole and carried far off into the mountains where wolves living there tore it to shreds and lined their dens with it.

The Orcs again were scared, some drew weapons, but seeing the futility of trying to fight the wind replaced them in scabbards. Vark was lucky he was calling on only the elements of Fire and Air, as they were the two most playful forces, Earth and Water were concentrated on the more serious matters of warding and healing respectively and would never countenance such parlour tricks.

"Enough!" shouted Gorgol finally as the wind died down, making a cutting gesture across his body.

"Enough of what?" asked Vark striding around the chamber, "Enough of slavery to Dark Lords and Wizards? Enough of skulking in dark holes and being hunted when we do leave them?" he asked the room at large. He paused in front of Gorgol again, "Where are the great Orc cities? Where are the armies that all fear? Where is the Orc nation? The bastion of strength for every one of our people to rally to, where is the banner that is raised when victory is sounded? Lastly, where is the pride of our people?"

"There is no life in the void, only death." Replied Gorgol to him fatalistically, though many of the Mordor Orcs believed the words, and also willed a day when they could walk freely in their own lands, they had been slaved to a dark Master for thousands of years, enspelled to ever prevent escape.

"We will build the city, fortress of our people," continued Vark, ignoring him, "We have the army, Orcs, Uruk-hai, tribals, goblins, all alike in bond. We will carve the nation from the lands surrounding. And there is the banner!" Vark pointed to Lurtz, who cut the string holding the cloth, out rolled the black field and red symbol of the Horde, the colours contrasting strongly. There seemed an indescribably quality to the standard after Vark's speech, the colours were exactly the same as Sauron's colours, but the meaning different. Whereas one was an fiery eye of destruction, seeing all and watching constantly for treachery, the other was almost an arch, each segment supporting the others to form a thing that was greater than the sum of its parts, and instead of fire, the red was blood, the promise of bloodshed in war, but also the brotherhood of blood that was shed side by side by honourable warriors.

"It has been seen that we can act without masters." Put in Lurtz, his banner wafting in a gentle breeze, "The armies of Azog, of Bolg, of Golfinbul, they all fought without some sorcery directing them."

"You promise this?" asked Gorgol hesitantly, still wary of standing with the Orc whom it was technically his duty to kill, "You give your oath that there will be an Orc nation, free from any master than ourselves?"

"By our shared blood." Said Vark, slitting his palm with a knife as he had when he swore a similar oath to Blackbite, if he inducted any more people into his Horde he would have a permanent wound there.

"Then we stand with you." Replied Gorgol, making the same gesture and clasping Vark's hand, abandoning his old master and becoming the first of the Orcs out of Mordor to join with the New Horde.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

Éowyn sat by the side of her uncle in the shadowy hall of Meduseld. The day was overcast and the winds spoke of storm and she had found her feet leading her toward the quarters of the court physician and her hands opening old scrolls that listed the ancient legends of the fall of Númenór. Though Rohan truly was a magnificent land, its hills beautiful and its rivers fair, it had none of the majesty of Gondor. She read of the tall kings with their nine tall ships, of the great Seeing Stones of Númenór, and the landing of Elendil on Middle Earth.

But dusty parchments did nothing to assuage her loneliness, Éomer had ridden away east to gather riders from the holdings there and from the company of Elfhelm, Araval was dispatched upon some errand into the mountains, and Théoden King was as always unresponsive to the concerns of his people.

As she sat with her embroidery she wondered about the bearer of her favour, the Lord Nine, also ridden away with her cousin to Grimslade. He seemed to be ever her protector, and she felt warmed by his concern, Éomer was right in saying that he was an aid unlooked for to the Sons of Eorl, and to her.

"Éowyn." Came a rasping voice from behind her, and she turned, discarding her needles and cloth to turn and face her uncle.

"My Lord?" she asked, barely believing her eyes. The King of the Mark was sitting further up, grasping his cane in the hand and levering himself up with the other, leaving his chair by his own power for the first time in what seemed like years.

Guards rushed into the room and saw the King standing, and knelt before him in honour, laying their swords at his feet. Later in the day Théoden was walking about the city, his legs taking long strides and talking with the folk of the lower stands. All rejoiced. When Éomer returned later with five hundred riders to reinforce the West Emnet he neither could believe his eyes and cheered along with the other men when Théoden mounted his horse, Snowmane. Then Éowyn knew she had another thing to thank Nine for.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

"Did you plan that?" asked Lurtz as he and the Warchief rode back through the long tunnel leading through the Ring of Isengard.

They had stayed at Blackmarch for another couple of hours before a servant had come riding in, almost being killed by the guards insisting that Vark come to Orthanc at the request of Taelan. Those hours had been spent mainly in planning, on the logistics of the new army, and on the intelligence that Gorgol had been given to fulfil his mission.

"Of course I did. Did you think I go wandering about recruiting people without planning it?" Snapped Vark back, the Warchief was looking unusually uneasy from his previously elated state.

"What if it hadn't worked?" asked Lurtz back to him.

"Then I would have killed them all and claimed Right of Conquest." Replied Vark bluntly. "I only didn't do that in the first place because I wanted his experience as a general."

**OOOOooooOOOO**

"The Regent put me in charge!" shouted Morac to the Uruk Captain.

"Yet another reason to doubt his sanity." Replied Mahúr blandly, raising his arms, several others snickered.

"We already knew he was insane, yet he still governs reasonably." Insisted Morac, "He only said I had to 'listen to your advice', yet you ask that I hand over command to you!" This conversation had been going around and around for several hours, all the while the Horse-lords kept up their fight on the hill.

"The plan has failed." replied Mahúr.

"Because you will not provide the men!" shouted Morac back, he had few supporters but he was in command, not the Uruk.

"It has failed because it is a stupid plan." Responded Mahúr again, "But very well, you may take ten with you. Then, when they die as well, the fighting Uruk-hai will win this battle."

"You are most generous." Said Morac through gritted teeth, then he turned and walked away. His plan had been to attack the camp unawares by killing the scouts, but one had seen them and gotten away and the Horse-lords were prepared and a pitched battle had started, not the quick skirmish he had thought to fight. As he was walking up the hill to the reserve point where the rest of the raiding party was gathered he suddenly realised that Mahúr had not specified what sort his 'ten' could be. Morac grinned to himself and changed course to the Uruk-hai camp.

As he strode up he pointed at a group sitting down and eating some kind of dark strips of meat. "You lot!" he called, go find some berserkers and bring them here." Then as an afterthought he added "Mahúr's orders." That got them moving and soon a small group of the larger Uruks were brought up. Each was equipped as standard for their foul type, a dirty loincloth and bone necklaces being their only accoutrements, whilst the freakishly large sword was their only weapon.

The young commander gave them their orders then led them up a hill, usefully there was only ten berserkers in the whole company, and so he didn't have to pull up numbers with any inferior Orcs like the Mordor mob that they had passed and spoken to as they came down the Vale. As the group skirted 'round the hill to the far side he heard the sound of battle, the shouting of the Orcs and other beast-folk and the occasional 'Stand Fast!' of the Rohirrim, gesturing for them to be quiet in spite of this he lead his troop to the boulders that the Rohirrim were sheltering against. They climbed to the top, the berserkers leaping from the shoulders of one of their kin to a protuberance and hauling themselves up. This went swiftly and they were all up within minutes. Morac edged his way over the top, looking down on the melee. Only feet below him was the flag of the defenders, held by a stout, grey-bearded man.

"On my mark." He told the Uruks, "We jump down and kill them all."

It was not a complicated plan.

"Need blood." Slurred one of the berserkers, marginally larger than the others, bashing his helm with a gnarled hand.

"You want blood?" Morac shouted at him, his patience snapping. "Go get it!" With that he bodily lifted the Uruk and hurled him down onto the standard bearer, the flagpole snapped under its weight and several Rohirrim fell down. Morac leapt after him, party to get into the fray and vent his frustration further, partly to escape the wrath of the other berserkers after hurting their leader. However, he was not to be disappointed, the rest of the group jumped down with him roaring at the top of their unnatural lungs and bringing their great scimitars down on the heads of the garrison and splitting them in two, one (subjectively) lucky man moved as they jumped and only lost an arm, but the rest died instantly.

The Uruk he had thrown down raged up again, sweeping his sword around, three more died at that. As he killed a man himself, piecing the chainmail under an arm and penetrating into the chest cavity Morac saw around twenty more die in half as many seconds, a great cry went up from both sides, one in joy and another is fear. The battle lines were distorted and the shield wall that had held them off for hours shattered into fragments, instead of the clean blocks of warriors the field was now a swirling pit, broken groups of Rohirrim making last stands among the encroaching tide of Orcs, as well as being caught up and smashed against the rocks of the berserkers.

Coppery blood sprayed across Morac's face as he opened the throat of another man with the tip of his sword, a red smile under his actual mouth, set in the grimace of battle. Morac angrily wiped an arm across his eyes, the blood was obscuring his vision and if he could not see he could not kill. Around him the battle was quickly turning into a rout, a shout came from the western side and several of the defenders made a sortie into the flank of the original attacking band, breaking their way out and attempting to flee. But Morac had no time to spare in thinking about that, he had come to the largest knot of Horse-lords, rallying around a standard showing a white horse on a brown field instead of a green, similarly, their commander was a tall man with the horsetail plume of a Rohir officer, but wore brown, again instead of the traditional green. Morac had no head for heraldry, but ran in all the same, hearing the heavy tread of his berserkers behind him, one outpaced him, running on past and jumped into the fray, scorning a weapon it punched and scratched at the men, eventually leaping at one old gammer and biting his throat out. The other men recoiled at the sight of the convulsing body and Morac bellowed and took the opening, and pushed deep enough into the formation with his Svinfylking or 'Boar's Snout' to reach the Captain of the defenders.

"How now Forgoil?" he called up to the Captain, "Face me!"

The plumed man ceased yelling for the ranks to be widened to absorb the charge and turned to Morac, "You are but a boy!" he called back, then saw the attacking berserkers among Morac's escort, "But by Béma you shall not have this hill." Then he bounded down also and drew his sword up to fight.

Morac met the first swing with a scavenged shield he had pulled on some time before in the melee, deflecting the blow into the dirt, he jabbed forward with his own sword, then drew back again, menaced by the man's attack. Bashing backhand with the shield, which was rapidly disintegrating under the man's attacks, he went on the offensive, hacking away at the Forgoil's defences until his sword snapped at the hilt. Now weaponless he threw the remains of the shield at the Rohirrim and drew his dagger and quickly buried it in the man's shoulder, then he removed his helmet held it above him.

"Know that you die by the hand of Morac of Isengard!" he yelled, and brought the hunk of metal down of the bleeding man's head.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

Many miles north of Dol Baran an elf known as 'Bloody Flame' to the Orcs of Mordor, as 'Regent' to most of Isengard, as 'Lightning' to the warriors of Mor'shan Base Camp, and as 'Taelan' to his friends was designing a personal standard. After a long discussion with the Head Tailor, whom he had eventually found out was called Harald, Taelan found it particularly ironic that a person who made heraldry was named so similarly sounding to the word.

The design sitting before them on a dark stone table was fairly simplistic; Harald had heard of Taelan's newest title and planned accordingly, therefore the flag laid out was predominantly a medium red with a burning fire set in the middle, beneath this were three darker red drops of blood. This design would later be incorporated to the new robes Taelan had commissioned, as well as several other sets for a project the elf wished to propose to Vark when he returned.

"Good." He mused to himself, "Very good, show me the rest."

"Here milord."

Harald scrambled for several other mock-ups, instead of the actual finished product of the flag before, these were either ink drawings or draught pieces, not fully completed but just cloth cut outs of the final form. Whilst this was going on there was a sound at the door and three Orcs walked in, technically they were not all Orcs, however, depending on where one was in the world they would all be counted under the definition of 'Orc' by their native people. One was Vark, another Lurtz, and a new addition, one which when Taelan turned he was moderately surprised at, Gorgol.

"Ah, nearly ready." Taelan said, and then greeted the Orcs.

"Why did you summon me?" asked Vark, walking up.

"You place a great emphasis on symbols my friend." Replied Taelan, "I thought you might like to see the latest batch."

"Well then, show me." Vark ordered.

"We're waiting for one more. Talk amongst yourselves." Answered Taelan, and then went back to the table.

However, a few moments later another Orc walked in. This one was a cross between Gorgol and Lurtz in that he was taller than the Mordor Orc, but smaller than the Uruk, his legs more bowed than the Uruk, but less than Gorgol's. This was because he was a Mountain Orc, from the tribes that lived far from Mordor, as such no red eye or any other sigil adorned his gear, instead having an undeniable 'wild' theme. His shoulders were ornamented with a wolf's skin, his dreadlocks dyed white, his grey skin tattooed with swirling patterns.

"I am Nar'zul of the Tribes." The newcomer declared, stepping into the room.

"Welcome." Said Vark, clasping the outstretched arm.

"You are Vark the Warchief?" asked Nar'zul.

"I am."

"Word has come to us of you." Continued Narzul, "Many have come to test your prowess, I speak for the Tribals, best me and win loyalty."

Whilst Vark quickly beat the Orc Taelan mulled over the politics of Orc leadership in general, he wondered how long it would be before the various sympathetic groups would realise that one couldn't beat Vark in a straight up fight. That was a problem with the 'Might is Right' method, it didn't always work, say a someone who was incredibly strong but otherwise as intelligent as a particularly unintelligent dog, they might win the duel, but then the Horde as a whole would suffer through their bad leadership. Similarly, not everyone played by the rules in the first place; a fighter could win by treachery, like poison or sorcery. This too weakened the body as a whole; betrayal was not a model upon which to build a nation. Taelan wondered about constructing a Ring of Valour, like the one back on Azeroth, a gladiatorial arena for disputes to be settled honourably and a training area for the younger warriors.

"You have beaten me." Grunted Nar'zul eventually, he dropped his sword at Vark's feet and knelt on one knee. Vark raised him up with a touch on the shoulder and told him to pick his weapon up.

"Right." Said Taelan to the room at large. "Come forward all of you, and have a look at these." The elf held out a piece of parchment to Lurtz.

"What is this?" the Uruk asked.

"That is the mark of the Warsong. Red is your colour." Replied Taelan, happily seeing the slight flash of surprise and awe go across Lurtz's face as he looked upon the symbol of the legendary clan. Lurtz held up the paper for the others to see, it was a red square with a snarling white face on it, all tusks and jagged teeth with two triangular eyes at the top.

"For you General," Taelan said, handing out another parchment to Gorgol, "the Bleeding Hollow, so named for their chieftain Krilogg Deadeye, heroic leader who was instrumental in freeing the Orcs. Green is your colour." This one was a weeping eye with a serrated line running through it.

"Lastly," he said turning to Nar'zul, "The Frostwolves, the winter runners, blue is your colour." This parchment shows a white wolf's head on a blue background.

"With the Warchief's permission, I had it in mind to revive the old custom of the clans, making you three the first clan chiefs, with all the rights and responsibilities they entail." Taelan said.

"What of the Warchief?" asked Lurtz.

"He was Warsong." Replied Taelan, "No wait," he said when Lurtz made to give the mark to Vark, "When he became Warchief he became head of all the Horde."

Vark nodded, "I have no clan now," he said, sadly but firmly, "I am for the Horde entire as he says."

"Yes Warchief." Said Lurtz.

"Your sashimono banner is being made as we speak, that is the symbol of the leadership of the Warsong." Taelan added, referencing the even older custom of the small rectangular banner affixed to the backplate of a Warsong chief's armour.

"What of our symbols of leadership?" asked Nar'zul

"You have them already." Laughed Vark.

Nar'zul looked confused, but then saw Gorgol tracing the violent slash across the eye on the parchment, then tracing the dark scar across his own eye socket in turn. The tribal chief looked at his own wolf skin and at the wolf's head on his new standard, then nodded.

"You have a standard?" Vark asked, running his hand along a full scale draft of the Horde's horned crescent.

"Indeed." Replied Taelan, holding up his own.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

"Loose!" hissed Cahill, forty bows loosed within three seconds of each other as the signal was relayed down the line. Silent arrows invisible in the night sky plummeted downwards, landing in the bodies of the people of Grimslade, many missed, many wounded, but many also killed outright, striking through chest, neck or eye.

"Draw!" he hissed again, waited for a few seconds, then, "Loose!" The second volley was quite ragged, the less experienced archers taking longer to reload and aim. The first arrows were the five from his guard, Dunlendings who had been with him for years and knew the tactics, then another few at once soon after, probably from the Orc skirmishers, after that the lower '_thunk'_ of the Uruk-hai's scavenged bows, a heavier draw and a sure kill if they their target.

However, this volley was not to kill, but as an inducer of fear. The arrows had small notches carved in them to make them scream as they soared across the black, they were also on fire. The archers targeted every place in the village, almost every hut or long-house was shot at, the fiery arrows catching in the wood of thatch and setting the structure on fire. However, the arrows served another purpose; this was to be a signal that summoned the thirty warg riders under Umbaron to the fight. They ran in hacking and slashing, the white hand on the flag carried by a rider near Umbaron floating in the breeze as the heat from the flames soared upwards.

True to what Umbaron had found out, the town of Grimslade was probably home to between one and two thousands in peacetime, however, as the Dark Enemy in Mordor had resurfaced, there was an increased need for riders in the outer garrisons and the hill forts between the realms of Gondor and the dark forest of Mirkwood. That meant that the town was not only home to seven hundreds, two hundreds of that being fighters and away at that. The garrison was now only four score strong.

The strategy that the two bloodthirsty men had decided upon for this attack was contingent on several factors, the most important of which was that Grimbold, the Lord of Grimslade would care enough about his people to descend from his lofty perch above the villagers to save them. The plan was such that the archers and raiders under Cahill would rain fire and death down upon the enemy from the hill, their arrows arching over the length of the town, then that Umbaron would attack where the arrows struck, this would mean that the riders under Grimbold would hopefully sally out to make a sortie against the raiders and drive them off, the thirty seeming more with the addition of the hidden archers. Whilst this was happening some Orcs under one swarthy individual who had emerged as a natural leader during the raids would burn down the town's stables and sack the High Hall at the top of the town and generally make a bloody nuisance of themselves, in both senses of the word. Simultaneously, Umbaron would retreat and his force split into two parts and wheel round to flank Grimbold's party as he rode down from his high seat, Cahill would join them and the sack of Grimslade would progress until the townsfolk had organised themselves enough to mount a proper defence. Hardy as their party was they could not face a town's worth of people, no matter the weapons.

"You ten keep shooting," he told the Orc skirmishers, "the rest of you, with me! Isengard! Isengard!" he cried, and then he dug his heels into his mount's flanks and bounded off into the blazing lower quarter whilst some of the party split away into another group off toward the High Hall. 'Isengard' had emerged as a popular chant when attacking, it fitted in with the plan's aspect of deception, and also served to unite the disparate elements of his band, the Uruk-hai, the Orcs, and Dunlendings, all brought together in common cause under the shadow of the Obsidian Tower.

The wargs skidded down the slopes, front legs locked and braced, back legs bent, some of the more skilled among them managed to loose another volley of arrows on the way down. Cahill held his sword for the strike, he could see the Marshal of Westfold preparing his men, a brown and white banner fluttering weakly on the almost non-existent wind.

The last part of the wider battle he saw before his line of sight was cut off by the houses of Grimslade was Umbaron forming his men up around him and breaking off. After that the only thing the man called 'Darkwood' saw was the reach of his sword, carving about his flanks in great swipes, splitting skulls open with each strike.

Soon they came to the rendezvous and hid themselves and their animals either behind or inside any of the unburnt buildings. Almost as soon as they arrived Cahill heard the thunder of many hooves beating the dirt, and shouting in the Rohirric tongue. Cahill understood many words of that tongue, but not all, luckily the Dunland tongue had been spoken in many western lands of the Mark and the dialects were similar enough for him to catch the meaning of the words. The leader of the party, a young man by his voice, was cursing the day the raiders were born, and ordering that they be found and punished in numerous biologically improbable ways.

Then he heard the sounds of fighting once again, the clash of curved scimitar on the bright long swords of the Horse-lords. Too soon! They had to have been discovered, there was nothing for it, he would have to hold until Umbaron came to his aid. Hopefully the dammed Southron hadn't set up his prayer mat just yet.

"Isengard!" he cried again, then urging his mount forward. The great black warg surged through the weakened planks of the wall and came out amongst the surprised Rohirrim, bowling down a rider, his horse screaming as the warg's claws dug into it.

The battlecry of 'Isengard!' was repeated along the line, wargs and their riders, Orcs and Dunlendings leapt out of their hiding places and into the fight, Cahill looked around and glimpsed again the brown banner flying further off. He made for it, rallying his men about him and surging forward against the mounted group. In close quarters a warg would win every time against a horse, even one to well trained as a steed of Rohan. That meant the only advantage the Rohirrim now had was their height advantage. This caused many of Cahill's men to be cut down as they neared the standard, but they pressed forward still. In screamed another volley of fire arrows, plunging into the group, most of them being deflected by the strong chainmail the riders wore, but the rest set cloaks and hair alight, and one went through the banner, seemingly through the prancing horse's heart.

"Come Grimbold!" shouted Cahill as loudly as he could, his loud voice echoing over the battlefield, "Come fight Cahill Darkwood!"

Many riders turned toward him at that, and made toward him, at their head the banner and the young man who had been shouting curses before.

"Answer for you crimes Dunlander. My father is away fighting your vile kind in the north, but I, Ungerth will face you!" replied the man to his challenge.

"Gah!" swore Cahill as he charged forward, "I called the dog himself not his pup, but if I cannot have the father I will take his son!"

**OOOOooooOOOO**

"Good evening Wizard." Taelan called as he opened the cell.

A pair of grey eyes started angrily back at him.

The Wizard Saruman was chained to an upturned table. His amputated hand made it impossible to properly use shackles, so his arms were chained together and across his body. He also had a gag about his jaw, preventing him from using his persuasive voice. Till Taelan could find a guard that was both blind, mute, and could not write, he had been tending to Saruman himself. Otherwise the secret would eventually get out and without a guard who could neither be communicated to, or in turn communicate with others, he would not risk that. He had forgotten to feed the Wizard a few times, but thought he had made up for it by not killing him.

The Wizard's upper body was swaddled in bandages, around his shoulder, his stump, and his head from the wounds of Vark's axe and Nine's knives. The results of Taelan's frost based spell that had frozen his other hand were to be seen in a missing finger from frostbite and a blotchy colouration of the hand and lower arm.

"We are steadily ripping apart your dreams." Said Taelan happily, he laid out a steaming bowl of dark but clear liquid. "But you know today we must clean your wound again."

Saruman's eyes hardened.

In the early days Taelan had used his mind reading technique to snatch some snippets of information whilst the Wizard's control was lessened whilst Taelan 'cleaned' his wounds. While it was true salt and boiling wine would indeed prevent infection, Taelan doubted that was what the Wise Ones of long ago had in mind for medical care. He had even experimented with different types of alcohol to clean the injuries. Alcohol was well known to prevent infection and he was interested to know which type was best. So far Orc-draught was in the lead, but the experiment was on-going.

Such snippets as he had gathered included the way to get into Saruman's office, some of the process of creating the Uruk-hai, the location of a cave full of the most delightful flesh eating mushrooms, and the plans to a complicated little clockwork mechanism that seemed to only produce a spark when set off at a certain time. After he had constructed the device he had realised that it was in fact a sort of remote detonator for the so called 'Fires of Orthanc', otherwise known as gunpowder.

However unfortunately the Wizard had discovered his ploy and strengthened his mental defences, clearing his mind from the pain each time Taelan began his 'care'. This made everything much less fun. Now all the Wizard would think about when he neared was the descent and ancestry of ancient Elvish kings. Which was far less interesting that one might naturally assume.

Taelan cut off the bandages on the Wizard's stump and looked at the wound. He did not need to get any closer to see that it was slowly becoming infected. He had once read a ponderous tome, scholarly composed, that proposed the existence of tiny organisms that lived in every being. It was an interesting read and Taelan had understood that heat or certain chemicals, as well as spells from magic users could kill these organisms that were apparently responsible for infection of living tissue. Cauterisation was one way of killing these creatures, and that was (according to the book) why it was used for so long in so many different places to prevent infection.

Taelan frowned. Evidently some aspect of his attentions was going wrong.

He opted this time to pour the boiling wine over the wound, rather than submerge it in a bowl for a couple of minutes as he usually did. Yes, that might work better.

Taelan completed his work more quickly this time, then padded the wound clean and set it on a box to breathe. It was looking better already, the skin, or what remained of it, was a healthy pink colour and the flesh that was corrupted had been cut away. Taelan was pleased, and wandered off humming a jaunty tune to himself, he locked the door behind him and put a minor hex on it to deter anyone from trying to open it.

The elf strode away down the corridor. He had been mulling over the theory of magic for the last few days. A complicated matter to be sure, but he wondered what differences there were between his and Saruman's magic. Certainly there were similarities, but there were also glaring differences. He remembered from the fight in the Palantír room that Saruman had shut the doors with some kind of spell. However, when he spoke the spell he had intoned it, it was not ritualistic, asking for aid from some higher power, nor was it a mere reminder of what spell he was casting. Rather it was what some of Saruman's hoarded scrolls had mentioned as a 'Word of Command'. You could almost feel the capitals.

Words were certainly used on Azeroth in the casting of spells, but not _to_ cast spells. For instance, if one had to intone a particular word to launch a fireball, what if you did not speak the required language? Or what if you were underwater or something similar, such as the snake-people of the Naga and their spell-casters, noted that particular group used mainly water based spells but the point was still valid.

Instead, words were used to inform the battle field that that particular spell was being cast, it was a courtesy. For instance, if you heard 'Pyroblast!' being yelled, you knew to get down as quick as possibly unless you wanted to be caught in an explosion. Similarly, spell effects could knock each other out, a enemy that had just been set on fire with said Pyroblast would be on fire. Therefore, casting a spell such as 'Typhoon' which did exactly what one might expect of it, would put those flames out, compromising the effectiveness of the group. There were examples of schools of magic that just would not work together, like Light and Shadow, or Death and Nature, these schools would rather destroy each other than the enemy they had been employed against.

Consequentially, Taelan was incredibly interested in the effect of Saruman's staff on his spells, if he could use it of course.

Taelan threw open the doors to the Palantír chamber, and looked at the staff on the floor. Swallowing the vague unsettling feeling at the base of his skull, not fear, definitely not fear, he picked up the staff.

The effect was rather anticlimactic. Instead of the dramatic swirling of wind he had imagined, the billowing effect on his robes and hair and the ethereal glow in his eyes precisely nothing had happened.

"Well." He remarked to the room at large.

At least it hadn't exploded like the last one.

As the somewhat disappointed warlock turned to leave a glint of light caught his eye at the base of the pillar. He walked over, trying to find the best way to walk with a staff, whether carrying it by the middle part parallel to the ground or by using it as a walking stick, clunking with every other step on the floor.

He reached forward and retrieved a little silver ring, some unknown stone set in it. He felt a compulsion to put it on, and seeing no reason not to, did so. He set it on his right hand, so that he could hold his new staff with his right hand, but his dagger with his left, as was the custom of many warlocks. He also set the two rings on the hands with the weapon they original belonged to. That is, his ritual knife on one hand with his Blood Ring, and Saruman's ring with Saruman's staff.

Once he had made this arrangement he felt an immense sense of power running though him.

This was more like it.

Activating his Magesight, a complicated and mana intensive spell but an incredibly useful one in certain circumstances, he looked at his hands. From his right came a white light. It was not the comforting light of dawn, nor the merry light of a candle, but the swift white light that blinds rather than illuminates, the light that prevents anything else from being seen, making all concentrate on it alone. It seemed that his arm glowed, the light spread further into his body, penetrating his chest and speeding along his veins. However, there it was met by a darkness.

The darkness came from his other hand, seemingly to move at a slow pace but no less faster than the white was a red light, the baleful red light of his people's legacy flowing though his body, the magic of Blood. The red came first from the dagger and swirled around it like dripping blood, then it passed through his first Ring, given to him years ago, concentrating and then overflowing into his left hand and up his arm, brushing all aside in an inevitable wave. Whereas the white would obliterate, the red would corrupt.

They met at his heart, and Taelan could feel the two powerful forces vying and threatening to tear apart his body from the inside, he tried to drop the weapons, to remove the rings that now bound him as surely as any shackle, but he could now, he was frozen.

He looked within himself once again, the white blazed away, burning the red into nothing, but the red responded, flowing into the white, making the white shine against itself rather than against its true enemy.

In the middle of this battle of coruscations was a small nugget of blue, protecting his heart it shone on its own, it had the purity of the white but the familiarity of the red. Taelan took it as a sign, and opened himself to the blue, allowing his power to flow into it. It did not fight the other lights, but bound them together and slowly, as slowly as the first pebble that brings the avalanche, the lights receded. The white filled him, but also the red, the blue binding them both together, around and around like a great braid or plait, three forces together for greater strength.

Taelan came back to himself. He gasped in air, his paralysis not letting him even breathe before. He looked down with normal eyes now, his Magesight gone, the light within him was gone, white, red and blue all. Instead he saw the pale gem at the head of the staff shining strongly whilst the ruby on his original Ring shone with its normal red vibrancy. The blue was nowhere to be seen, but Taelan guessed it resided inside him, a cocoon around his heart.

Taelan's mouth twitched. Then again, then into a grin, and finally a full blown smile, a maniacal cackle escaped his lips as he ran from the Chamber giggling and laughing to himself as he ran to the top of the tower, taking the long stair three steps at a time, heedless of the long fall.

He was going to go try out his new toys!

**OOOOooooOOOO**

"Lord!" shouted Bandon who had ridden back in from Grimslade as they approached. "The town is burning and wargs run through the streets, we must hasten!" he wheeled around after saying this and spurred his horse into a gallop across the grass to the steadily growing orange glow.

"We shall aid them!" declared Théodred to his troop. "Forth Eorlingas!" he shouted, spurring his horse also into a gallop. Many of the men of his own household, a score in total copied him, digging their heels in till the horses were nearly foaming at the mouth. Nine meanwhile kept his canter, falling to the back of the group with the most experienced riders who also understood that the warrior (or horse) who charges tired can achieve nothing. The remaining distance was tense, each rider leaning down to check their equipment whilst keeping their heads down to preserve speed. Nine for his part loosened his weapons in their sheaths and drew his bow, notching an arrow to it and taking another in the hand that held the bow.

Nine sighted on a group of enemies as they reached the three hundred yard mark, he could manage more on foot, but he had never extensively trained as a mounted archer. With each successive shot he waited till the moment the horse's feet were all off the ground as not to jolt the shot. That moment when the horse seemed to fly though the air, the wind streaming though his hair, the fletching on the arrow brushing past his cheek as he shot, dorsal muscles releasing and the string speeding the arrow into flesh.

The Rohirrim around him shouted encouragement over the wind as he loosed more arrows, but soon he had to replace his bow in its holder and draw his own sword. Nine saw a tall blonde haired man shouting for the retreat and waving a bloody sword as he realised that the defenders had been reinforced, probably the leader of the band.

The enemy saw them and gave alarm, but Nine removed the head of the one who first shouted with a single sweep of his sword, the rest panicked and Nine wheeled around to have another go at them. As he did so he became a target, an arrow punched into his saddle sticking in the boiled leather an inch away from his leg. As he cursed and set his horse bounding behind a building he was thrown from the saddle by the same leader who had been ordering the retreat. They crashed through a window and onto a table, overturning it. Nine was up first, a second before the leader, he grabbed a wooden stool and threw it at the man who batted it aside, but was knocked down again. Seeing as he didn't really want to kill the man, given his status as a leader and the relative certainly that he would report back to someone high up in the command chain Nine decided to make a gamble.

"Listen!" he yelled at the man, deflecting a wild sword thrust from the ground, "I'm a spy!"

That put the man back, "What?" he hissed, still holding his sword up suspiciously but not attacking anymore. Although him being covered by Nine's sword at his throat might have had something to do with it.

"There are fifty riders out there, you can't win anymore, tell the Warchief that 'expect Shaw at the Fords'" Nine told him, "Raids are no longer safe, the Rohirrim know, tell him it is time the Horde emerged."

"How do you know the Horde?" asked the blond man, pushing himself up, but keeping his sword down. "What of Saruman?"

"Please," spat Nine sarcastically, "I helped defeat him." He said.

The man looked even more surprised. "If what you say is true-"

"Just tell him!" hissed Nine, he was finding it hard not to shout, "You need to get back to Isengard with the news, remember, 'Shaw at the Fords', Go! Now, before you lose this battle entirely!"

The blonde man looked uncertain for a moment but mercifully only a moment, then rushed out and climbed on a warg, then sounding a horn on the beast's saddle he rode off, rallying many of his men around him. Nine rushed outside as well, eager to make it look like he was fighting so that the deception might continue. All around him wargs were rushing by, warriors on foot giving one last stroke against their foe before grappling on and swinging themselves up at full sprint. Nine ran over to the main battlefield, stabling a few dead Orcs along the way to stain his sword with their blood and smearing the blood of a dead Rohirrim on his forehead to make him look wounded.

Finally the enemy was gone and as Nine came to the company banner and the knot of officers surrounding it he saw there was a quarrel. Théodred was sitting on the ground, eyes staring into a fire, glazed over.

"By the Light," whispered Nine as he neared. "It's the first time he's killed."

"Coward!" came a cry from up ahead and one of the Rohirrim struck another, the man who had been hit flying back.

"What's this?" shouted Nine as he ran in sword raised.

The Rohirrim who had thrown the punch responded, "This _Messanger_ does not wish to pursue the Orcs Daeghir, I call him coward for it."

The struck man stood up and started forward full of wroth but Nine held him back, it was Bandon, the man originally from Grimslade, "I only said that we must first save the people here before we ride away, let vengeance wait until out duty is done." He insisted angrily, looking at Nine only briefly in favour of glaring at the other Rider.

"You are both right." Said Nine, ever the peacemaker, "but the townspeople come first, you," he said, pointing to the one who had struck, "take three with you, one follows all the time, when you know where they are going send one back here and one onto their destination if it be in the lands of Rohan. One is to go to the Fords of Isen regardless, as I think that maybe where they are headed. Horses are faster than wolves. Go!"

The man selected some of his fellows and rode off after the party, meanwhile Nine turned to the crowd again, "It is up to us to save the town," he said, "All the living, tend to the wounded, repair the damage, but most of all, put these fires out! The lower quarter is lost, start with the middle, pull down the houses if you must but prevent it from spreading!"

Just then they felt a shadow cross the moon and the land went dark for a moment, the flames seeming to decrease in brightness, then the shadow was gone and the sudden atrophy that had afflicted them faded.

"Get to work!" yelled Nine, and so they did. They toiled long into the night and found many corpses of the village people, eventually Théodred awakened from his shock and gave a hand in helping also but the most saddening sight they found that night was the weeping form of Bandon, cradling the severed head of Ungerth, son of Grimbold in his hands, sitting by a headless corpse into which had been planted a grisly trophy, a pole topped with ragged black banner, a white hand grasping out from it.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

Vark felt no need to sleep that night, he, along with hundreds of other Orcs and men were enjoying the fireworks.

Evidently Taelan had wanted to vent some steam off, as all they could see from the top of Orthanc was a succession of lightning bolts and fireballs, then a rain of icicles and a blizzard, and finally an odd spluttering purple rose like creation. As Vark knew that his friend was in no way finished yet he ordered that Orc-grog be brought, after all, this was as good an excuse for a party as any other.

On Vark's second horn of 'draught the purple light had started up again, and risen into the sky where it exploded into a rainbow of colours. Then a tiny figure had looked over the edge of the tower, Vark had been one of the first to see it and had raised a horn in greeting, evidently the figure had seen him because shortly a bright white light had blazed out, and a series of pictures had risen from the tower.

The first was a great red dragon, many Orcs gave cries of alarm as the illusionary construct flew around the tower, but Vark's indifference calmed them, the dragon flew higher and higher before exploding into a red symbol now adorning many different banners across Isengard, that of the reborn Horde in Arda. Vark smiled and raised his horn again, draining it. Next was the bright white light again, and soon came the howls of wolves. At first Vark though his Regent was tampering with sound as well as light, but soon realised that the wolves had come from their dens in the north of the Circle, drawn out by the new 'moon' they had seen and were greeting it. Vark stood and roared his approval, and his people followed him, their bellows no doubt shaking the vary stones. The illusionist gave his own salute with a howling wolf's head emblazoned on the sky.

Then came the symbols of the various clans of Orcish legend, the Warsong was greeted by song and cry from Lurtz's Uruk-hair, the slashed eye by the clashing of sword on shield of Gorgol and the wolf by a good imitation of a wolf's howl from Nar'zul, all three were thoroughly drunk. After than came other smaller clans, important ones but not known by every Orc child as the first three were. The last image was that of a scimitar aflame, many Orcs mumbled in approval at a suitable warlike mark, but Vark growled deep in his throat. That was the emblem of the Burning Blade, the puppet tribe of the Shadow Council, enslavers and traitors to their people. Vark had only just thought to get up and send his own fireball to destroy the icon than it was done for him; the sword was seized by a crude fashioning of a muscled green Orc, and used to fight a great serpentine demon. Then Vark understood that it was a symbol of redemption not betrayal, a powerful show for his new Horde made up for the most part of those who had turned away from their old masters.

During a slight break in the theatrics a contingent of gate guards came into the party, lamenting their duty away from the fun. They brought with them a bedraggled man dressed all in black, his hair was shorn about his shoulders and he had a black eye.

"And who might you be?" asked Vark, slurring only slightly, the warm fuzzy feeling from the numerous horns of grog should not descend into drunkenness, or so he had told himself.

"I am Gríma son of Galmod, a friend and councillor to Saruman, I was told by a man called Nine to come here and present myself, Saruman the White wishes for me to return with my information." He replied with some traces of arrogance that has been shot down in flames only recently.

Vark chuckled darkly, as did his lieutenants, not knowing the joke but happy to share in their leader's amusement. "Lock him up." Commanded Vark to the guards, "then join us for a drink." He doubted that anyone would attack tonight, besides, a legion of drunken Orcs might actually be worse and a legion of sober ones.

"Yes Warchief!" replied the guards enthusiastically whilst they dragged away the cursing and spitting Gríma.

Several minutes after this Lurtz drew their attention to the next illusion, it was a cloud of fog, unusually for fog though it was an electric blue colour, however, the cloud was broken by a shape flying through it and a harsh shriek.

"That is not a nice noise; I'll go tell him to go back to the dragons." Said Vark, rising unsteadily, gripping a tree for support.

"I don't like the bat either." contributed Lurtz.

"That is no bat." Said Gorgol, the sight shocking him back into full awareness, "Nazgûl!" he shouted loudly and ran for cover.

Vark looked at him, wondering what it meant, then more Orcs began recognising the terrible shape and panicking, many throwing themselves down and cowering on the floor, some of the more resolute ones drawing swords.

"Nazgûl!"

**OOOOooooOOOO**

"'Ere!" Saruman heard from outside his door, "This one's got one in it already!"

The Demon was gone, yet this may have been another of his tricks to confuse or disorient him. The Demon was tricky like that, he would play mind games, visiting thrice in a day, then fading away for a week, leaving Saruman to starve and contemplate his fate, then returning again with boiling water or a burning brand and torturing him.

"Shove him in and let's get back." Replied another voice.

But no, this was not another of the Demon's tricks, this voice smelled of dirt and muck, like and Orc, the Demon smelled of sorcery and blood, the primal forces.

The door opened and a brief candlelight showed two half-Orc types throw in another prisoner. The moonlight outside illuminated the man's face and if Saruman was not mistaken-

"What have the beasts done to you my Lord?" simpered Wormtongue, crawling toward Saruman. The spy pulled off Saruman's gag.

"Wah" the Wizard gasped, his mouth dry, Wormtongue went to the door and took a flagon of water that the Demon had left to torment him, always slightly out of reach, always the Demon would walk away giving a slight hope of escape, like the water, but then crushing it, by leaving it far away. This night had been a terrible one he though as he drank the brackish water Worm slopped over him, great flashes of light, the bellows of Orcs.

And he would have sworn before the Elder King he had seen a dragon pass his window earlier.

Clearly he was going mad.

This could not be allowed! He had such plans. Such schemes for himself and Middle Earth. They must continue!

Suddenly Saruman realised his mouth was free, the Demon had made a mistake at last, leaving him a single servant. He tried to speak, to intone, but coughed, Worm slopped more water over him.

"At last." He gasped finally. Then smiling he spoke many words of command, the first knocking the Worm unconscious, they must believe that he had freed Saruman, then he unlocked and uncoiled the chains about him. Rising on stiff muscles and old bones he stood for the first time in days. He could barely do that much, was he fallen so far?

Then he heard the shriek.

There was a Nazgûl here.

But no, No! Sauron would have found out about his treachery and in his state he could not even fend off a fly, barely on of the Nine. He hobbled to the door and spoke another Word. Then passed out of his prison, killing three guards and a servant with a sentence laced with the eight Words of Oblivion he made his way down the tower, evading many more guards. Luckily most were drunk. Saruman heard more shrieks and the sounds of a clamor below him. The Ringwraith would distract them for long enough. Passing secretly though the tunnels under Orthanc the Wizard went to the north passages he had had dug many decades ago, the Spine of the Mountains. There were guards at the door, yet instead of killing them he ensnared them with many of the Lesser Words of Binding, and forced them to come along with him.

Giving a final look to a burning comet flying down the side of the tower he intoned a last word, using the last of his strength to collapse the tunnel behind him and was carried away by his slaves.

**OOOOooooOOOO**

Taelan covered his ears at the scream, it went straight though him, rattling his very bones, but he forced himself to stand, brandishing his new staff aloft his called forth fire and shot it toward the great bat-like creature assaulting him on the Pinnacle of Orthanc.

The bat swerved, its wing singed and the leathery hide between its long 'fingers' burning. But from the bat leapt a smaller shape, it two seemed to have wings, but when it landed they formed into a black cloak, a wraith or revenant that shrieked again like a banshee, except that instead of indicating a death, it was death.

"Who are you that stand on the Pinnacle and holds the Rod of Orthanc?" it asked him in a hissing monosyllabic voice.

Taelan did not deign to answer, but threw fire at it again, the gems in his rings and staff blazing with light, seeming to drive the thing back. But a sword swept up from the thing's black robes and cut the flames in half. It advanced upon him and he met the sword with his staff's head, the two points clanging off of each other. Taelan drew himself up and fired off an explosion of arcane energy, hoping to drive it back, or across the precipice to kill or at least get it out of its sword range. However, instead of driving it off entirely the explosion impacted on the sword, held in a guard position across the wraith's body and blew it away, clattering on the floor.

Taelan opened his Magesight for the second time that night, trying to find the identity of his mystery attacker, he had been happily making illusion for Vark and the Orcs when this thing and its mount had flown in, snapping and hissing at him. But with the 'Sight he would be able to divine the thing's weakness, if it had any.

When he saw it as it truly was he was shocked, and even slightly repulsed. The thing was dead, not in the way of the Scourge or the way of a corpse, but dead in that it should not be. It was unnatural, the anathema of all that survived was free. Yet it was a man, A tall crown and lordly robes adorned his body, but he had a wrinkled face, one that held a count of years so long it would fade into forgetful memory before it arose once again. The tattered dress swirled around it's body, and on its extremities were cruel looking gauntlets and boots.

Then Taelan looked at its eyes, they were dead as well, but they spoke of torment, then he saw the ring on its hand and the dagger in its other and as the dagger plunged down into his shoulder he felt nothing but a cold pain, turning his blood to ice. Then the dagger broke and vanished into black smoke, drifting away. The rotten king turned and three shadowy figures ran in through a door one of them holding out a hand to banish the terrible whiteness.

The Elf saw through his own eyes again, and heard through his own ears as the Orcs rushed about, and as Vark burned the wraith to cinders, sending it flying over the edge to plummet down the side of the tower. Then he saw the great green Orc kneel by him, a great hand cupping his head.

Taelan could feel the cold seeping into his chest, his left arm was numb, he heard words as if from afar, further off, further off.

Then his sight went dark.


End file.
